B  y    James     Joyce 


Firmly  etched  into  these  pages  are 
Irish  city  life,  character,  types  and 
traits,  with  Dublin  as  the  back- 
ground. With  perfect  objectivity 
and  a  reticence  suggestive  of  reserve 
power,  the  author  makes  of  each  of 
these  short  stories  a  tensely  wrought 
composition,  disclosing  in  balanced 
relief  some  idea  or  situation  of  uni- 
versal import.  No  reader  of  this 
book  can  fail  to  become  a  Joyce 
enthusiast. 


i.    Publisher,  22 5    Fifth 


/-*  /k**,%-*A+\,  jt<l'e  *?«v 


0<m  J)   $*># 


DUBLINERS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


A  Portrait  of  the  Artist 
as  a  Young  Man 

$1.50  net 

Published  by  B.  W.  Huebsch 


DUBLINE  RS 


BY 

JAMES  JOYCE 


NEW  YORK 
B.  W.  HUEBSCH 

1916 


CONTENTS 


The  Sisters 

An  Encounter 

Arabv 

Eveline 

After  the  Race 

Two  Gallants 

The  Boarding  House 

A  Little  Cloud 

Counterparts 

Clay 

A  Painful  Case 

Ivy  Day  in  the  Committee 

A  Mother    . 

Grace 

The  Dead    . 


Room 


PAGE 

9 

21 

33 

42 

49 

58 

73 

84 

104 

120 

130 

144 

166 

184 

216 


THE  SISTERS 

There  was  no  hope  for  him  this  time  :  it  was  the 
third  stroke.  Night  after  night  I  had  passed  the 
house  (it  was  vacation  time)  and  studied  the  lighted 
square  of  window  :  and  night  after  night  I  had 
found  it  lighted  in  the  same  way,  faintly  and  evenly. 
If  he  was  dead,  I  thought,  I  would  see  the  reflection 
of  candles  on  the  darkened  blind  for  I  knew  that  two 
candles  must  be  set  at  the  head  of  a  corpse.  He  had 
often  said  to  me  :  '  I  am  not  long  for  this  world,'  and 
I  had  thought  his  words  idle.  Now  I  knew  they  were 
true.  Every  night  as  I  gazed  up  at  the  window  I 
said  softly  to  myself  the  word  paralysis.  It  had 
always  sounded  strangely  in  my  ears,  like  the  word 
gnomon  in  the  Euclid  and  the  word  simony  in  the 
Catechism.  But  now  it  sounded  to  me  like  the  name 
of  some  maleficent  and  sinful  being.  It  filled  me 
with  fear,  and  yet  I  longed  to  be  nearer  to  it  and  to 
look  upon  its  deadly  work. 

Old  Cotter  was  sitting  at  the  fire,  smoking,  when 
I  came  downstairs  to  supper.  While  my  aunt  was 
ladling  out  my  stirabout  he  said,  as  if  returning  to 
some  former  remark  of  his  : 

'  No,  I  wouldn't  say  he  was  exactly  .  .  .  but  there 
was  something  queer  .  .  .  there  was  something 
uncanny  about  him.  I'll  tell  you  my  opinion.  .  .  .' 
9 


10  DUBLINERS 

He  began  to  puff  at  his  pipe,  no  doubt  arranging  his 
opinion  in  his  mind.  Tiresome  old  fool !  When  we 
knew  him  first  he  used  to  be  rather  interesting, 
talking  of  faints  and  worms  ;  but  I  soon  grew  tired 
of  him  and  his  endless  stories  about  the  distillery. 

4 1  have  my  own  theory  about  it,'  he  said.  4 1 
think  it  was  one  of  those  .  .  .  peculiar  cases.  .  .  . 
But  it's  hard  to  say.  .  .  .' 

He  began  to  puff  again  at  his  pipe  without  giving 
us  his  theory.  My  uncle  saw  me  staring  and  said  to 
me : 

4  Well,  so  your  old  friend  is  gone,  you'll  be  sorry 
to  hear.' 

'Who?'   said  I. 

4  Father  Flynn.' 

4  Is  he  dead  ?  ' 

4  Mr  Cotter  here  has  just  told  us.  He  was  passing 
by  the  house.' 

I  knew  that  I  was  under  observation  so  I  continued 
eating  as  if  the  news  had  not  interested  me.  My 
uncle  explained  to  old  Cotter. 

4  The  youngster  and  he  were  great  friends.  The 
old  chap  taught  him  a  great  deal,  mind  you  ;  and 
they  say  he  had  a  great  wish  for  him.' 

4  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul,'  said  my  aunt 
piously. 

Old  Cotter  looked  at  me  for  a  while.  I  felt  that 
his  little  beady  black  eyes  were  examining  me  but 
I  would  not  satisfy  him  by  looking  up  from  my  plate. 
He  returned  to  his  pipe  and  finally  spat  rudely  into 
the  grate. 


THE  SISTERS  11 

1 1  wouldn't  like  children  of  mine,'  he  said,  '  to 
have  too  much  to  say  to  a  man  like  that.' 

4  How  do  you  mean,  Mr  Cotter  ?  '  asked  my  aunt. 

4  What  I  mean  is,'  said  old  Cotter,  -  it's  bad  for 
children.  My  idea  is  :  let  a  young  lad  run  about 
and  play  with  young  lads  of  his  own  age  and  not 
be  .  .  .  Am  I  right,  Jack  ?  ' 

4  That's  my  principle,  too,'  said  my  uncle.  4  Let 
him  learn  to  box  his  corner.  That's  what  I'm 
always  saying  to  that  Rosicrucian  there :  take 
exercise.  Why,  when  I  was  a  nipper  every  morning 
of  my  life  I  had  a  cold  bath,  winter  and  summer. 
And  that's  what  stands  to  me  now.  Education  is 
all  very  fine  and  large.  ...  Mr  Cotter  might  take  a 
pick  of  that  leg  of  mutton,'  he  added  to  my  aunt. 

4  No,  no,  not  for  me,'  said  old  Cotter. 

My  aunt  brought  the  dish  from  the  safe  and  put  it 
on  the  table. 

4  But  why  do  you  think  it's  not  good  for  children, 
Mr  Cotter  ?  '   she  asked. 

4  It's  bad  for  children,'  said  old  Cotter,  4  because 
their  minds  are  so  impressionable.  When  children 
see  things  like  that,  you  know,  it  has  an  effect.  .  .  .' 

I  crammed  my  mouth  with  stirabout  for  fear  I 
might  give  utterance  to  my  anger.  Tiresome  old 
red-nosed  imbecile ! ' 

It  was  late  when  I  fell  asleep.  Though  I  was 
angry  with  old  Cotter  for  alluding  to  me  as  a  child 
I  puzzled  my  head  to  extract  meaning  from  his 
unfinished  sentences.  In  the  dark  of  my  room 
I  imagined  that  I  saw  again  the  heavy  grey  face 


12  DUBLINERS 

of  the  paralytic.  I  drew  the  blankets  over  my 
head  and  tried  to  think  of  Christmas.  But  the 
grey  face  still  followed  me.  It  murmured  ;  and 
I  understood  that  it  desired  to  confess  something. 
I  felt  my  soul  receding  into  some  pleasant  and 
vicious  region ;  and  there  again  I  found  it  waiting 
for  me.  It  began  to  confess  to  me  in  a  murmuring 
voice  and  I  wondered  why  it  smiled  continually 
and  why  the  lips  were  so  moist  with  spittle.  But 
then  I  remembered  that  it  had  died  of  paralysis  and 
I  felt  that  I  too  was  smiling  feebly  as  if  to  absolve 
the  simoniac  of  his  sin. 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast  I  went  down 
to  look  at  the  little  house  in  Great  Britain  Street. 
It  was  an  unassuming  shop,  registered  under  the 
vague  name  of  Drapery.  The  drapery  consisted 
mainly  of  children's  bootees  and  umbrellas  ;  and  on 
ordinary  days  a  notice  used  to  hang  in  the  window, 
saying :  Umbrellas  Re-covered.  No  notice  was 
visible  now  for  the  shutters  were  up.  A  crape 
bouquet  was  tied  to  the  door-knocker  with  ribbon. 
Two  poor  women  and  a  telegram  boy  were  reading 
the  card  pinned  on  the  crape.  I  also  approached 
and  read  : 

July  1st,  1895 

The  Rev.  James  Flynn  (formerly  of  S.  Catherine's 

Church,  Meath  Street),  aged  sixty-five  years. 

R.  I.  P. 

The  reading  of  the  card  persuaded  me  that  he 
was  dead  and  I  was  disturbed  to  find  myself  at 


THE  SISTERS  13 

check.  Had  he  not  been  dead  I  would  have  gone 
into  the  little  dark  room  behind  the  shop  to  find 
him  sitting  in  his  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  nearly 
smothered  in  his  great-coat.  Perhaps  my  aunt 
would  have  given  me  a  packet  of  High  Toast  for 
him  and  this  present  would  have  roused  him  from 
his  stupefied  doze.  It  was  always  I  who  emptied 
the  packet  into  his  black  snuff-box  for  his  hands 
trembled  too  much  to  allow  him  to  do  this  without 
spilling  half  the  snuff  about  the  floor.  Even  as 
he  raised  his  large  trembling  hand  to  his  nose  little 
clouds  of  smoke  dribbled  through  his  fingers  over  the 
front  of  his  coat.  It  may  have  been  these  constant 
showers  of  snuff  which  gave  his  ancient  priestly 
garments  their  green  faded  look  for  the  red  hand- 
kerchief, blackened,  as  it  always  was,  with  the  snuff- 
stains  of  a  week,  with  which  he  tried  to  brush  away 
the  fallen  grains,  was  quite  inefficacious. 

I  wished  to  go  in  and  look  at  him  but  I  had  not 
the  courage  to  knock.  I  walked  away  slowly  along 
the  sunny  side  of  the  street,  reading  all  the  theatrical 
advertisements  in  the  shop-windows  as  1  went. 
I  found  it  strange  that  neither  I  nor  the  day  seemed 
in  a  mourning  mood  and  I  felt  even  annoyed  at 
discovering  in  myself  a  sensation  of  freedom  as  if 
I  had  been  freed  from  something  by  his  death.  I 
wondered  at  this  for,  as  my  uncle  had  said  the  night 
before,  he  had  taught  me  a  great  deal.  He  had 
studied  in  the  Irish  college  in  Rome  and  he  had  taught 
me  to  pronounce  Latin  properly.  He  had  told  me 
stories  about  the  catacombs  and  about  Napoleon 


14  DUBLINERS 

Bonaparte,  and  he  had  explained  to  me  the  meaning 
of  the  different  ceremonies  of  the  Mass  and  of  the 
different  vestments  worn  by  the  priest.  Sometimes 
he  had  amused  himself  by  putting  difficult  questions 
to  me,  asking  me  what  one  should  do  in  certain 
circumstances  or  whether  such  and  such  sins  were 
mortal  or  venial  or  only  imperfections.  His  questions 
showed  me  how  complex  and  mysterious  were  certain 
institutions  of  the  Church  which  I  had  always 
regarded  as  the  simplest  acts.  The  duties  of  the 
priest  towards  the  Eucharist  and  towards  the  secrecy 
of  the  confessional  seemed  so  grave  to  me  that  I 
wondered  how  anybody  had  ever  found  in  himself 
the  courage  to  undertake  them ;  and  I  was  not 
surprised  when  he  told  me  that  the  fathers  of  the 
Church  had  written  books  as  thick  as  the  Post  Office 
Directory  and  as  closely  printed  as  the  law  notices 
in  the  newspaper,  elucidating  all  these  intricate 
questions.  Often  when  I  thought  of  this  I  could 
make  no  answer  or  only  a  very  foolish  and  halting 
one  Upon  which  he  used  to  smile  and  nod  his  head 
twice  or  thrice.  Sometimes  he  used  to  put  me 
through  the  responses  of  the  Mass  which  he  had 
made  me  learn  by  heart ;  and,  as  I  pattered,  he  used 
to  smile  pensively  and  nod  his  head,  now  and  then 
pushing  huge  pinches  of  snuff  up  each  nostril  alter- 
nately. When  he  smiled  he  used  to  uncover  his  big 
discoloured  teeth  and  let  his  tongue  lie  upon  his  lower 
lip — a  habit  which  had  made  me  feel  uneasy  in  the 
beginning  of  our  acquaintance  before  I  knew  him 
well. 


THE  SISTERS  15 

As  I  walked  along  in  the  sun  I  remembered  old 
Cotter's  words  and  tried  to  remember  what  had 
happened  afterwards  in  the  dream.  I  remembered 
that  I  had  noticed  long  velvet  curtains  and  a 
swinging  lamp  of  antique  fashion.  I  felt  that  I 
had  been  very  far  away,  in  some  land  where  the 
customs  were  strange — in  Persia,  I  thought.  .  .  . 
But  I  could  not  remember  the  end  of  the  dream. 

In  the  evening  my  aunt  took  me  with  her  to  visit 
the  house  of  mourning.  It  was  after  sunset ;  but 
the  window-panes  of  the  houses  that  looked  to  the 
west  reflected  the  tawny  gold  of  a  great  bank  of 
clouds.  Nannie  received  us  in  the  hall ;  and,  as  it 
would  have  been  unseemly  to  have  shouted  at  her, 
my  aunt  shook  hands  with  her  for  all.  The  old 
woman  pointed  upwards  interrogatively  and,  on  my 
aunt's  nodding,  proceeded  to  toil  up  the  narrow  stair- 
case before  us,  her  bowed  head  being  scarcely  above 
the  level  of  the  banister-rail.  At  the  first  landing 
she  stopped  and  beckoned  us  forward  encouragingly 
towards  the  open  door  of  the  dead-room.  My  aunt 
went  in  and  the  old  woman,  seeing  that  I  hesitated 
to  enter,  began  to  beckon  to  me  again  repeatedly 
with  her  hand. 

I  went  in  on  tiptoe.  The  room  through  the  lace 
end  of  the  blind  was  suffused  with  dusky  golden 
light  amid  which  the  candles  looked  like  pale  thin 
flames.  He  had  been  coffined.  Nannie  gave  the  lead 
and  we  three  knelt  down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  I 
pretended  to  pray  but  I  could  not  gather  my  thoughts 
because  the  old  woman's  mutterings  distracted  me. 


16  DUBLINERS 

I  noticed  how  clumsily  her  skirt  was  hooked  at  the 
back  and  how  the  heels  of  her  cloth  boots  were 
trodden  down  all  to  one  side.  The  fancy  came  to 
me  that  the  old  priest  was  smiling  as  he  lay  there  in 
his  coffin. 

But  no.  When  we  rose  and  went  up  to  the  head 
of  the  bed  I  saw  that  he  was  not  smiling.  There  he 
lay,  solemn  and  copious,  vested  as  for  the  altar, 
his  large  hands  loosely  retaining  a  chalice.  His 
face  was  very  truculent,  grey  and  massive,  with 
black  cavernous  nostrils  and  circled  by  a  scanty 
white  fur.  There  was  a  heavy  odour  in  the  room 
— the  flowers. 

We  crossed  ourselves  and  came  away.  In  the 
little  room  downstairs  we  found  Eliza  seated  in  his 
arm-chair  in  state.  I  groped  my  way  towards  my 
usual  chair  in  the  corner  while  Nannie  went  to  the 
sideboard  and  brought  out  a  decanter  of  sherry  and 
some  wine-glasses.  She  set  these  on  the  table  and 
invited  us  to  take  a  little  glass  of  wine.  Then,  at 
her  sister's  bidding,  she  filled  out  the  sherry  into  the 
glasses  and  passed  them  to  us.  She  pressed  me  to 
take  some  cream  crackers  also  but  I  declined  because 
I  thought  I  would  make  too  much  noise  eating  them. 
She  seemed  to  be  somewhat  disappointed  at  my 
refusal  and  went  over  quietly  to  the  sofa  where  she 
sat  down  behind  her  sister.  No  one  spoke  :  we  all 
gazed  at  the  empty  fireplace. 

My  aunt  waited  until  Eliza  sighed  and  then  said  : 

4  Ah,  well,  he's  gone  to  a  better  world.' 

Eliza  sighed  again  and  bowed  her  head  in  assent. 


THE  SISTERS  17 

My  aunt  fingered  the  stem  of  her  wine-glass  before 
sipping  a  little. 

1  Did  he  .  .  .  peacefully  ?  '  she  asked. 

1  Oh,  quite  peacefully,  ma'am,'  said  Eliza.  '  You 
couldn't  tell  when  the  breath  went  out  of  him.  He 
had  a  beautiful  death,  God  be  praised.' 

4  And  everything  .  .  .  ?  ' 

1  Father  O'Rourke  was  in  with  him  a  Tuesday 
and  anointed  him  and  prepared  him  and  all.' 

4  He  knew  then  ?  ' 

4  He  was  quite  resigned.' 

4  He  looks  quite  resigned,'  said  my  aunt. 

4  That's  what  the  woman  we  had  in  to  wash  him 
said.  She  said  he  just  looked  as  if  he  was  asleep, 
he  looked  that  peaceful  and  resigned.  No  one  would 
think  he'd  make  such  a  beautiful  corpse.' 

4  Yes,  indeed,'  said  my  aunt. 

She  sipped  a  little  more  from  her  glass  and  said  : 

4  Well,  Miss  Flynn,  at  any  rate  it  must  be  a  great 
comfort  for  you  to  know  that  you  did  all  you  could 
for  him.  You  were  both  very  kind  to  him,  I  must 
say.' 

Eliza  smoothed  her  dress  over  her  knees. 

4  Ah,  poor  James  ! '  she  said.  4  God  knows  we 
done  all  we  could,  as  poor  as  we  are — we  wouldn't 
see  him  want  anything  while  he  was  in  it.' 

Nannie  had  leaned  her  head  against  the  sofa- 
pillow  and  seemed  about  to  fall  asleep. 

4  There's  poor  Nannie,'  said  Eliza,  looking  at  her, 
4  she's  wore  out.  All  the  work  we  had,  she  and  me, 
getting  in  the  woman  to  wash  him  and  then  laying 

B 


18  DUBLINERS 

him  out  and  then  the  coffin  and  then  arranging 
about  the  Mass  in  the  chapel.  Only  for  Father 
O'Rourke  I  don't  know  what  we'd  have  done  at  all. 
It  was  him  brought  us  all  them  flowers  and  them 
two  candlesticks  out  of  the  chapel  and  wrote  out  the 
notice  for  the  Freeman's  General  and  took  charge 
of  all  the  papers  for  the  cemetery  and  poor  James's 
insurance.' 

4  Wasn't  that  good  of  him  ?  '  said  my  aunt. 

Eliza  closed  her  eyes  and  shook  her  head  slowly. 

4  Ah,  there's  no  friends  like  the  old  friends,'  she 
said,  4  when  all  is  said  and  done,  no  friends  that  a 
body  can  trust.' 

4  Indeed,  that's  true,'  said  my  aunt.  4  And  I'm 
sure  now  that  he's  gone  to  his  eternal  reward 
he  won't  forget  you  and  all  your  kindness  to 
him.' 

4  Ah,  poor  James  ! '  said  Eliza.  4  He  was  no 
great  trouble  to  us.  You  wouldn't  hear  him  in  the 
house  any  more  than  now.  Still,  I  know  he's  gone 
and  all  to  that.  .  .  .' 

'  It's  when  it's  all  over  that  you'll  miss  him,' 
said  my  aunt. 

4 1  know  that,'  said  Eliza.  4 1  won't  be  bringing 
him  in  his  cup  of  beef -tea  any  more,  nor  you,  ma'am, 
sending  him  his  snuff.     Ah,  poor  James  ! ' 

She  stopped,  as  if  she  were  communing  with  the 
past  and  then  said  shrewdly  : 

4  Mind  you,  I  noticed  there  was  something  queer 
coming  over  him  latterly.  Whenever  I'd  bring  in 
his  soup  to  him  there  I'd  find  him  with  his  breviary 


THE  SISTERS  19 

fallen  to  the  floor,  lying  back  in  the  chair  and  his 
mouth  open. 

She  laid  a  finger  against  her  nose  and  frowned : 
then  she  continued : 

4  But  still  and  all  he  kept  on  saying  that  before 
the  summer  was  over  he'd  go  out  for  a  drive  one  fine 
day  just  to  see  the  old  house  again  where  we  were  all 
born  down  in  Irish  town  and  take  me  and  Nannie 
with  him.  If  we  could  only  get  one  of  them  new- 
fangled carriages  that  makes  no  noise  that  Father 
O'Rourke  told  him  about,  them  with  the  rheumatic 
wheels,  for  the  day- cheap — he  said,  at  Johnny  Rush's 
over  the  way  there  and  drive  out  the  three  of  us 
together  of  a  Sunday  evening.  He  had  his  mind 
set  on  that.  .  .  .  Poor  James  !  ' 

1  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! '  said  m}'  aunt. 

Eliza  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  eyes 
with  it.  Then  she  put  it  back  again  in  her  pocket 
and  gazed  into  the  empty  grate  for  some  time  without 
speaking. 

1  He  was  too  scrupulous  always,'  she  said.  '  The 
duties  of  the  priesthood  was  too  much  for  him. 
And  then  his  life  was,  you  might  say,  crossed.' 

1  Yes,'  said  my  aunt.  '  He  was  a  disappointed 
man.     You  could  see  that.' 

A  silence  took  possession  of  the  little  room  and, 
under  cover  of  it,  I  approached  the  table  and  tasted 
my  sherry  and  then  returned  quietly  to  my  chair 
in  the  corner.  Eliza  seemed  to  have  fa  lien  into  a  deep 
revery.  We  waited  respectfully  for  her  to  break  the 
silence  :   and  after  a  long  pause  she  said  slowly  : 


20  DUBLINERS 

'  It  was  that  chalice  he  broke.  .  .  .  That  was  the 
beginning  of  it.  Of  course,  they  say  it  was  all  right, 
that  it  contained  nothing,  I  mean.  But  still.  .  .  . 
They  say  it  was  the  boy's  fault.  But  poor  James 
was  so  nervous,  God  be  merciful  to  him  ! ' 

c  And  was  that  it  ?  '  said  my  aunt.  4 1  heard 
something.  .  .  .' 

Eliza  nodded. 

1  That  affected  his  mind/  she  said.  '  After  that 
he  began  to  mope  by  himself,  talking  to  no  one  and 
wandering  about  by  himself.  So  one  night  he  was 
wanted  for  to  go  on  a  call  and  they  couldn't  find  him 
anywhere.  They  looked  high  up  and  low  down ; 
and  still  they  couldn't  see  a  sight  of  him  anywhere. 
So  then  the  clerk  suggested  to  try  the  chapel.  So 
then  they  got  the  keys  and  opened  the  chapel  and  the 
clerk  and  Father  O'Rourke  and  another  priest  that 
was  there  brought  in  a  light  for  to  look  for  him.  .  .  . 
And  what  do  you  think  but  there  he  was,  sitting 
up  by  himself  in  the  dark  in  his  confession-box, 
wide-awake  and  laughing-like  softly  to  himself  ?  ' 

She  stopped  suddenly  as  if  to  listen.  I  too 
listened ;  but  there  was  no  sound  in  the  house : 
and  I  knew  that  the  old  priest  was  lying  still  in  his 
coffin  as  we  had  seen  him,  solemn  and  truculent  in 
death,  an  idle  chalice  on  his  breast. 

Eliza  resumed  : 

'  Wide-awake  and  laughing-like  to  himself.  .  .  . 
So  then,  of  course,  when  they  saw  that,  that  made 
them  think  that  there  was  something  gone  wrong 
with  him.  .  .  .' 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

It  was  Joe  Dillon  who  introduced  the  Wild  West 
to  us.  He  had  a  little  library  made  up  of  old  numbers 
of  The  Union  Jack,  Pluck  and  The  Halfpenny  Marvel. 
Every  evening  after  school  we  met  in  his  back  garden 
and  arranged  Indian  battles.  He  and  his  fat  young 
brother  Leo  the  idler  held  the  loft  of  the  stable  while 
we  tried  to  carry  it  by  storm  ;  or  we  fought  a  pitched 
battle  on  the  grass.  But,  however  well  we  fought, 
we  never  won  siege  or  battle  and  all  our  bouts  ended 
with  Joe  Dillon's  war  dance  of  victory.  His  parents 
went  to  eight-o'clock  mass  every  morning  in  Gardiner 
Street  and  the  peaceful  odour  of  Mrs  Dillon  was 
prevalent  in  the  hall  of  the  house.  But  he  played 
too  fiercely  for  us  who  were  younger  and  more  timid. 
He  looked  like  some  kind  of  an  Indian  when  he 
capered  round  the  garden,  an  old  tea-cosy  on  his 
head,  beating  a  tin  with  his  fist  and  yelling : 

1  Ya  !  yaka,  yaka,  yaka  ! ' 

Everyone  was  incredulous  when  it  was  reported 
that  he  had  a  vocation  for  the  priesthood.  Never- 
theless it  was  true. 

A  spirit  of  unruliness   diffused  itself  among  us 

and,  under  its  influence,  differences  of  culture  and 

constitution  were    waived.     We  banded  ourselves 

together,  some  boldly,  some  in  jest  and  some  almost 

21 


22  DUBLINERS 

in  fear:  and  of  the  number  of  these  latter,  the  reluctant 
Indians  who  were  afraid  to  seem  studious  or  lacking 
in  robustness,  I  was  one.  The  adventures  related  in 
the  literature  of  the  Wild  West  were  remote  from  my 
nature  but,  at  least,  they  opened  doors  of  escape. 
I  liked  better  some  American  detective  stories  which 
were  traversed  from  time  to  time  by  unkempt  fierce 
and  beautiful  girls.  Though  there  was  nothing 
wrong  in  these  stories  and  though  their  intention 
was  sometimes  literary  they  were  circulated  secretly 
at  school.  One  day  when  Father  Butler  was  hearing 
the  four  pages  of  Roman  History  clumsy  Leo 
Dillon  was  discovered  with  a  copy  of  The  Halfpenny 
Marvel. 

1  This  page  or  this  page  ?  This  page  ?  Now, 
Dillon,  up !  "Hardly  had  the  day  "...  Go  on !  What 
day?  "  Hardly  had  the  day  dawned  "  .  .  .  Have  you 
studied  it  ?    What  have  you  there  in  your  pocket  ?  ' 

Everyone's  heart  palpitated  as  Leo  Dillon  handed 
up  the  paper  and  everyone  assumed  an  innocent  face. 
Father  Butler  turned  over  the  pages,  frowning. 

4  What  is  this  rubbish  ?  '  he  said.  '  The  Apache 
Chief !  Is  this  what  you  read  instead  of  studying 
your  Roman  History  ?  Let  me  not  find  any  more 
of  this  wretched  stuff  in  this  college.  The  man  who 
wrote  it,  I  suppose,  was  some  wretched  fellow  that 
writes  these  things  for  a  drink.  I'm  surprised  at 
boys  like  you,  educated,  reading  such  stuff.  I  could 
understand  it  if  you  were  .  .  .  National  School  boys. 
Now,  Dillon,  I  advise  you  strongly,  get  at  your  work 
or  .  .  .» 


AN  ENCOUNTER  23 

This  rebuke  during  the  sober  hours  of  school  paled 
much  of  the  glory  of  the  Wild  West  for  me  and  the 
confused  puffy  face  of  Leo  Dillon  awakened  one  of 
my  consciences.  But  when  the  restraining  influence 
of  the  school  was  at  a  distance  I  began  to  hunger 
again  for  wild  sensations,  for  the  escape  which  those 
chronicles  of  disorder  alone  seemed  to  offer  me. 
The  mimic  warfare  of  the  evening  became  at  last 
as  wearisome  to  me  as  the  routine  of  school  in  the 
morning  because  I  wanted  real  adventures  to  happen 
to  myself.  But  real  adventures,  I  reflected,  do  not 
happen  to  people  who  remain  at  home  :  they  must 
be  sought  abroad. 

The  summer  holidays  were  near  at  hand  when  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  break  out  of  the  weariness  of 
school-life  for  one  day  at  least.  With  Leo  Dillon  and 
a  boy  named  Mahony  I  planned  a  day's  miching. 
Each  of  us  saved  up  sixpence.  We  were  to  meet  at 
ten  in  the  morning  on  the  Canal  Bridge.  Mahony's 
big  sister  was  to  write  an  excuse  for  him  and  Leo 
Dillon  was  to  tell  his  brother  to  say  he  was  sick. 
We  arranged  to  go  along  the  Wharf  Road  until  we 
came  to  the  ships,  then  to  cross  in  the  ferryboat  and 
walk  out  to  see  the  Pigeon  House.  Leo  Dillon  was 
afraid  we  might  meet  Father  Butler  or  someone  out 
of  the  college  ;  but  Mahony  asked,  very  sensibly, 
what  would  Father  Butler  be  doing  out  at  the  Pigeon 
House.  We  were  reassured :  and  I  brought  the 
first  stage  of  the  plot  to  an  end  by  collecting  sixpence 
from  the  other  two,  at  the  same  time  showing  them 
my  own  sixpence.     When  we  were  making  the  last 


24  DUBLINERS 

arrangements  on  the  eve  we  were  all  vaguely  excited. 
We  shook  hands,  laughing,  and  Mahony  said  : 

1  Till  to-morrow,  mates  ! ' 

That  night  I  slept  badly.  In  the  morning  I  was 
first-comer  to  the  bridge  as  I  lived  nearest.  I  hid  my 
books  in  the  long  grass  near  the  ashpit  at  the  end  of 
the  garden  where  nobody  ever  came  and  hurried 
along  the  canal  bank.  It  was  a  mild  sunny  morning 
in  the  first  week  of  June.  I  sat  up  on  the  coping  of 
the  bridge  admiring  my  frail  canvas  shoes  which  I 
had  diligently  pipeclayed  overnight  and  watching  the 
docile  horses  pulling  a  tramload  of  business  people 
up  the  hill.  All  the  branches  of  the  tall  trees  which 
lined  the  mall  were  gay  with  little  light  green  leaves 
and  the  sunlight  slanted  through  them  on  to  the  water. 
The  granite  stone  of  the  bridge  was  beginning  to  be 
warm  and  I  began  to  pat  it  with  my  hands  in  time  to 
an  air  in  my  head.     I  was  very  happy. 

When  I  had  been  sitting  there  for  five  or  ten 
minutes  I  saw  Mahony's  grey  suit  approaching. 
He  came  up  the  hill,  smiling,  and  clambered  up  beside 
me  on  the  bridge.  While  we  were  waiting  he  brought 
out  the  catapult  which  bulged  from  his  inner  pocket 
and  explained  some  improvements  which  he  had  made 
in  it.  I  asked  him  why  he  had  brought  it  and  he  told 
me  he  had  brought  it  to  have  some  gas  with  the  birds. 
Mahony  used  slang  freely,  and  spoke  of  Father  Butler 
as  Old  Bunser.  We  waited  on  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  more  but  still  there  was  no  sign  of  Leo  Dillon. 
Mahony,  at  last,  jumped  down  and  said  : 

'  Come  along.     I  knew  Fatty'd  funk  it.' 


AN  ENCOUNTER  25 

1  And  his  sixpence.  .  .  .  ?  '  I  said. 

4  That's  forfeit,'  said  Mahony.  '  And  so  much  the 
better  for  us — a  bob  and  a  tanner  instead  of  a  bob.' 

We  walked  along  the  North  Strand  Road  till  we 
came  to  the  Vitriol  Works  and  then  turned  to  the 
right  along  the  Wharf  Road.  Mahony  began  to  play 
the  Indian  as  soon  as  we  were  out  of  public  sight. 
He  chased  a  crowd  of  ragged  girls,  brandishing  his 
unloaded  catapult  and,  when  two  ragged  boys  began, 
out  of  chivalry,  to  fling  stones  at  us,  he  proposed  that 
we  should  charge  them.  I  objected  that  the  boys 
were  too  small,  and  so  we  walked  on,  the  ragged  troop 
screaming  after  us :  *  Swaddlers!  Swaddlers ! '  thinking 
that  we  were  Protestants  because  Mahony,  who  was 
dark-complexioned,  wore  the  silver  badge  of  a  cricket 
club  in  his  cap.  When  we  came  to  the  Smoothing 
Iron  we  arranged  a  siege  ;  but  it  was  a  failure  because 
you  must  have  at  least  three.  We  revenged  ourselves 
on  Leo  Dillon  by  saying  what  a  funk  he  was  and 
guessing  how  many  he  would  get  at  three  o'clock 
from  Mr  Ryan. 

We  came  then  near  the  river.  We  spent  a  long 
time  walking  about  the  noisy  streets  flanked  by 
high  stone  walls,  watching  the  working  of  cranes  and 
engines  and  often  being  shouted  at  for  our  immobility 
by  the  drivers  of  groaning  carts.  It  was  noon  when 
we  reached  the  quays  and,  as  all  the  labourers  seemed 
to  be  eating  their  lunches,  we  bought  two  big  currant 
buns  and  sat  down  to  eat  them  on  some  metal  piping 
beside  the  river.  We  pleased  ourselves  with  the 
spectacle  of  Dublin's  commerce — the  barges  signalled 


26  DUBLINERS 

from  far  away  by  their  curls  of  woolly  smoke,  the 
brown  fishing  fleet  beyond  Ringsend,  the  big  white 
sailing-vessel  which  was  being  discharged  on  the 
opposite  quay.  Mahony  said  it  would  be  right  skit 
to  run  away  to  sea  on  one  of  those  big  ships  and  even 
I,  looking  at  the  high  masts,  saw,  or  imagined,  the 
geography  which  had  been  scantily  dosed  to  me  at 
school  gradually  taking  substance  under  my  eyes. 
School  and  home  seemed  to  recede  from  us  and  their 
influences  upon  us  seemed  to  wane. 

We  crossed  the  Liffey  in  the  ferryboat,  paying 
our  toll  to  be  transported  in  the  company  of  two 
labourers  and  a  little  Jew  with  a  bag.  We  were 
serious  to  the  point  of  solemnity,  but  once  during  the 
short  voyage  our  eyes  met  and  we  laughed.  When 
we  landed  we  watched  the  discharging  of  the  graceful 
three-master  which  we  had  observed  from  the  other 
quay.  Some  bystander  said  that  she  was  a  Norwegian 
vessel.  I  went  to  the  stern  and  tried  to  decipher  the 
legend  upon  it  but,  failing  to  do  so,  I  came  back  and 
examined  the  foreign  sailors  to  see  had  any  of  them 
green  eyes  for  I  had  some  confused  notion.  .  .  . 
The  sailors'  eyes  were  blue  and  grey  and  even  black. 
The  only  sailor  whose  eyes  could  have  been  called 
green  was  a  tall  man  who  amused  the  crowd  on  the 
quay  by  calling  out  cheerfully  every  time  the  planks 
fell: 

1  All  right !     all  right ! ' 

When  we  were  tired  of  this  sight  we  wandered  slowly 
into  Ringsend.  The  day  had  grown  sultry,  and  in 
the  windows  of  the  grocers'  shops  musty  biscuits  lay 


AN  ENCOUNTER  27 

bleaching.  We  bought  some  biscuits  and  chocolate 
which  we  ate  sedulously  as  we  wandered  through  the 
squalid  streets  where  the  families  of  the  fishermen 
live.  We  could  find  no  dairy  and  so  we  went  into  a 
huckster's  shop  and  bought  a  bottle  of  raspberry 
lemonade  each.  Refreshed  by  this,  Mahony  chased 
a  cat  down  a  lane,  but  the  cat  escaped  into  a  wide 
field.  We  both  felt  rather  tired  and  when  we  reached 
the  field  we  made  at  once  for  a  sloping  bank  over  the 
ridge  of  which  we  could  see  the  Dodder. 

It  was  too  late  and  we  were  too  tired  to  carry  out 
our  project  of  visiting  the  Pigeon  House.  We  had 
to  be  home  before  four  o'clock  lest  our  adventure 
should  be  discovered.  Mahony  looked  regretfully 
at  his  catapult  and  I  had  to  suggest  going  home  by 
train  before  he  regained  any  cheerfulness.  The  sun 
went  in  behind  some  clouds  and  left  us  to  our  jaded 
thoughts  and  the  crumbs  of  our  provisions. 

There  was  nobody  but  ourselves  in  the  field. 
When  we  had  lain  on  the  bank  for  some  time  without 
speaking  I  saw  a  man  approaching  from  the  far  end 
of  the  field.  I  watched  him  lazily  as  I  chewed  one 
of  those  green  stems  on  which  girls  tell  fortunes. 
He  came  along  by  the  bank  slowly.  He  walked  with 
one  hand  upon  his  hip  and  in  the  other  hand  he  held 
a  stick  with  which  he  tapped  the  turf  lightly.  He 
was  shabbily  dressed  in  a  suit  of  greenish -black  and 
wore  what  we  used  to  call  a  jerry  hat  with  a  high 
crown.  He  seemed  to  be  fairly  old  for  his  moustache 
was  ashen-grey.  When  he  passed  at  our  feet  he 
glanced  up  at  us  quickly  and  then  continued  his  way. 


28  DUBLINERS 

We  followed  him  with  our  eyes  and  saw  that  when  he 
had  gone  on  for  perhaps  fifty  paces  he  turned  about 
and  began  to  retrace  his  steps.  He  walked  towards 
us  very  slowly,  always  tapping  the  ground  with  his 
stick,  so  slowly  that  I  thought  he  was  looking  for 
something  in  the  grass. 

He  stopped  when  he  came  level  with  us  and  bade 
us  good-day.  We  answered  him  and  he  sat  down 
beside  us  on  the  slope  slowly  and  with  great  care. 
He  began  to  talk  of  the  weather,  saying  that  it  would 
be  a  very  hot  summer  and  adding  that  the  seasons 
had  changed  greatly  since  he  was  a  boy — a  long  time 
ago.  He  said  that  the  happiest  time  of  one's  life  was 
undoubtedly  one's  schoolboy  days  and  that  he  would 
give  anything  to  be  young  again.  While  he  expressed 
these  sentiments  which  bored  us  a  little  we  kept 
silent.  Then  he  began  to  talk  of  school  and  of  books. 
He  asked  us  whether  we  had  read  the  poetry  of 
Thomas  Moore  or  the  works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and 
Lord  Lytton.  I  pretended  that  I  had  read  every 
book  he  mentioned  so  that  in  the  end  he  said  : 

4  Ah,  I  can  see  you  are  a  bookworm  like  myself. 
Now,'  he  added,  pointing  to  Mahony  who  was 
regarding  us  with  open  eyes, '  he  is  different ;  he  goes 
in  for  games.' 

He  said  he  had  all  Sir  Walter  Scott's  works  and  all 
Lord  Lytton's  works  at  home  and  never  tired  of  read- 
ing them.  '  Of  course,'  he  said,  '  there  were  some 
of  Lord  Lytton's  works  which  boys  couldn't  read.' 
Mahony  asked  why  couldn't  boys  read  them — a 
question  which  agitated  and  pained  me  because  I  was 


AN  ENCOUNTER  29 

afraid  the  man  would  think  I  was  as  stupid  as  Mahony . 
The  man,  however,  only  smiled.  I  saw  that  he  had 
great  gaps  in  his  mouth  between  his  yellow  teeth. 
Then  he  asked  us  which  of  us  had  the  most  sweet- 
hearts. Mahony  mentioned  lightly  that  he  had 
three  totties.  The  man  asked  me  how  many  I  had. 
I  answered  that  I  had  none.  He  did  not  believe  me 
and  said  he  was  sure  I  must  have  one.     I  was  silent. 

4  Tell  us,'  said  Mahony  pertly  to  the  man,  4  how 
many  have  you  yourself  ?  ' 

The  man  smiled  as  before  and  said  that  when  he 
was  our  age  he  had  lots  of  sweethearts. 

1  Every  boy,'  he  said, '  has  a  little  sweetheart.' 

His  attitude  on  this  point  struck  me  as  strangely 
liberal  in  a  man  of  his  age.  In  my  heart  I  thought 
that  what  he  said  about  boys  and  sweethearts  was 
reasonable.  But  I  disliked  the  words  in  his  mouth 
and  I  wondered  why  he  shivered  once  or  twice  as  if 
he  feared  something  or  felt  a  sudden  chill.  As  he 
proceeded  I  noticed  that  his  accent  was  good.  He 
began  to  speak  to  us  about  girls,  saying  what  nice  soft 
hair  they  had  and  how  soft  their  hands  were  and  how 
all  girls  were  not  so  good  as  they  seemed  to  be  if  one 
only  knew.  There  was  nothing  he  liked,  he  said,  so 
much  as  looking  at  a  nice  young  girl,  at  her  nice  white 
hands  and  her  beautiful  soft  hair.  He  gave  me  the 
impression  that  he  was  repeating  something  which 
he  had  learned  by  heart  or  that,  magnetised  by  some 
words  of  his  own  speech,  his  mind  was  slowly  circling 
round  and  round  in  the  same  orbit.  At  times  he 
spoke  as  if  he  were  simply  alluding  to  some  fact  that 


30  DUBLINERS 

everybody  knew,  and  at  times  he  lowered  his  voice 
and  spoke  mysteriously  as  if  he  were  telling  us  some- 
thing secret  which  he  did  not  wish  others  to  overhear. 
He  repeated  his  phrases  over  and  over  again,  varying 
them  and  surrounding  them  with  his  monotonous 
voice.  I  continued  to  gaze  towards  the  foot  of  the 
slope,  listening  to  him. 

After  a  long  while  his  monologue  paused.  He 
stood  up  slowly,  saying  that  he  had  to  leave  us  for 
a  minute  or  so,  a  few  minutes,  and,  without  changing 
the  direction  of  my  gaze,  I  saw  him  walking  slowly 
away  from  us  towards  the  near  end  of  the  field. 
We  remained  silent  when  he  had  gone.  After  a 
silence  of  a  few  minutes  I  heard  Mahony  exclaim  : 

'  I  say  !    Look  what  he's  doing  ! ' 

As  I  neither  answered  nor  raised  my  eyes  Mahony 
exclaimed  again : 

4 1  say  .  .  .  He's  a  queer  old  josser  ! ' 

4  In  case  he  asks  us  for  our  names,'  I  said,  '  let  you 
be  Murphy  and  I'll  be  Smith.' 

We  said  nothing  further  to  each  other.  I  was 
still  considering  whether  I  would  go  away  or  not  when 
the  man  came  back  and  sat  down  beside  us  again. 
Hardly  had  he  sat  down  when  Mahony,  catching 
sight  of  the  cat  which  had  escaped  him,  sprang  up 
and  pursued  her  across  the  field.  The  man  and  I 
watched  the  chase.  The  cat  escaped  once  more  and 
Mahony  began  to  throw  stones  at  the  wall  she  had 
escaladed.  Desisting  from  this,  he  began  to  wander 
about  the  far  end  of  the  field,  aimlessly. 

After  an  interval  the  man  spoke  to  me.    He  said 


AN  ENCOUNTER  81 

that  my  friend  was  a  very  rough  boy  and  asked  did 
he  get  whipped  often  at  school.  I  was  going  to  reply 
indignantly  that  we  were  not  National  School  boys 
to  be  whipped,  as  he  called  it ;  but  I  remained  silent. 
He  began  to  speak  on  the  subject  of  chastising  boys. 
His  mind,  as  if  magnetised  again  by  his  speech, 
seemed  to  circle  slowly  round  and  round  its  new 
centre.  He  said  that  when  boys  were  that  kind  they 
ought  to  be  whipped  and  well  whipped.  When  a  boy 
was  rough  and  unruly  there  was  nothing  would  do 
him  any  good  but  a  good  sound  whipping.  A  slap  on 
the  hand  or  a  box  on  the  ear  was  no  good  :  what  he 
wanted  was  to  get  a  nice  warm  whipping.  I  was 
surprised  at  this  sentiment  and  involuntarily  glanced 
up  at  his  face.  As  I  did  so  I  met  the  gaze  of  a  pair 
of  bottle-green  eyes  peering  at  me  from  under  a 
twitching  forehead.     I  turned  my  eyes  away  again. 

The  man  continued  his  monologue.  He  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  his  recent  liberalism.  He  said 
that  if  ever  he  found  a  boy  talking  to  girls  or  having 
a  girl  for  a  sweetheart  he  would  whip  him  and  whip 
him  ;  and  that  would  teach  him  not  to  be  talking  to 
girls.  And  if  a  boy  had  a  girl  for  a  sweetheart  and 
told  lies  about  it  then  he  would  give  him  such  a 
whipping  as  no  boy  ever  got  in  this  world.  He  said 
that  there  was  nothing  in  this  world  he  would  like  so 
well  as  that.  He  described  to  me  how  he  would  whip 
such  a  boy  as  if  he  were  unfolding  some  elaborate 
mystery.  He  would  love  that,  he  said,  better  than 
anything  in  this  world  ;  and  his  voice,  as  he  led  me 
monotonously  through  the  mystery,  grew  almost 


32  DUBLINERS 

affectionate  and  seemed  to  plead  with  me  that  I 
should  understand  him. 

I  waited  till  his  monologue  paused  again.  Then  I 
stood  up  abruptly.  Lest  I  should  betray  my  agita- 
tion I  delayed  a  few  moments  pretending  to  fix  my 
shoe  properly  and  then,  saying  that  I  was  obliged  to 
go,  I  bade  him  good-day.  I  went  up  the  slope  calmly 
but  my  heart  was  beating  quickly  with  fear  that  he 
would  seize  me  by  the  ankles.  When  I  reached  the 
top  of  the  slope  I  turned  round  and,  without  looking 
at  him,  called  loudly  across  the  field  : 

c  Murphy ! ' 

My  voice  had  an  accent  of  forced  bravery  in  it  and 
I  was  ashamed  of  my  paltry  stratagem.  I  had  to  call 
the  name  again  before  Mahony  saw  me  and  hallooed 
in  answer.  How  my  heart  beat  as  he  came  running 
across  the  field  to  me !  He  ran  as  if  to  bring  me  aid. 
And  I  was  penitent ;  for  in  my  heart  I  had  always 
despised  him  a  little. 


ARABY 

North  Richmond  Street,  being  blind,  was  a  quiet 
street  except  at  the  hour  when  the  Christian  Brothers' 
School  set  the  boys  free.  An  uninhabited  house  of 
two  storeys  stood  at  the  blind  end,  detached  from  its 
neighbours  in  a  square  ground.  The  other  houses  of 
the  street,  conscious  of  decent  lives  within  them, 
gazed  at  one  another  with  brown  imperturbable 
faces. 

The  former  tenant  of  our  house,  a  priest,  had  died 
in  the  back  drawing-room.  Air,  musty  from  having 
been  long  enclosed,  hung  in  all  the  rooms,  and  the 
waste  room  behind  the  kitchen  was  littered  with  old 
useless  papers.  Among  these  I  found  a  few  paper- 
covered  books,  the  pages  of  which  were  curled  and 
damp  :  The  Abbot,  by  Walter  Scott,  The  Devout 
Communicant  and  The  Memoirs  of  Vidocq.  I  liked 
the  last  best  because  its  leaves  were  yellow.  The 
wild  garden  behind  the  house  contained  a  central 
apple-tree  and  a  few  straggling  bushes  under  one  of 
which  I  found  the  late  tenant's  rusty  bicycle-pump. 
He  had  been  a  very  charitable  priest ;  in  his  will  he 
had  left  all  his  money  to  institutions  and  the  furniture 
of  his  house  to  his  sister. 

When  the  short  days  of  winter  came  dusk  fell 
before  we  had  well  eaten  our  dinners.  When  we  met 
c  33 


34  DUBLINERS 

in  the  street  the  houses  had  grown  sombre.  The 
space  of  sky  above  us  was  the  colour  of  ever-changing 
violet  and  towards  it  the  lamps  of  the  street  lifted 
their  feeble  lanterns.  The  cold  air  stung  us  and  we 
played  till  our  bodies  glowed.  Our  shouts  echoed 
in  the  silent  street.  The  career  of  our  play  brought 
us  through  the  dark  muddy  lanes  behind  the  houses 
where  we  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  rough  tribes  from 
the  cottages,  to  the  back  doors  of  the  dark  dripping 
gardens  where  odours  arose  from  the  ashpits,  to  the 
dark  odorous  stables  where  a  coachman  smoothed  and 
combed  the  horse  or  shook  music  from  the  buckled 
harness.  When  we  returned  to  the  street  light  from 
the  kitchen  windows  had  filled  the  areas.  If  my  uncle 
was  seen  turning  the  corner  we  hid  in  the  shadow 
until  we  had  seen  him  safely  housed.  Or  if  Mangan's 
sister  came  out  on  the  doorstep  to  call  her  brother  in 
to  his  tea  we  watched  her  from  our  shadow  peer  up 
and  down  the  street.  We  waited  to  see  whether  she 
would  remain  or  go  in  and,  if  she  remained,  we  left  our 
shadow  and  walked  up  to  Mangan's  steps  resignedly. 
She  was  waiting  for  us,  her  figure  defined  by  the  light 
from  the  half -opened  door.  Her  brother  always 
teased  her  before  he  obeyed  and  I  stood  by  the  railings 
looking  at  her.  Her  dress  swung  as  she  moved  her 
body  and  the  soft  rope  of  her  hair  tossed  f ixmi  side  to 
side. 

Every  morning  I  lay  on  the  floor  in  the  front 
parlour  watching  her  door.  The  blind  was  pulled 
down  to  within  an  inch  of  the  sash  so  that  I  could  not 
be  seen.    When  she  came  out  on  the  doorstep  my 


ARABY  35 

heart  leaped.  I  ran  to  the  hall,  seized  my  books  and 
followed  her.  I  kept  her  brown  figure  always  in  my 
eye  and,  when  we  came  near  the  point  at  which  our 
ways  diverged,  I  quickened  my  pace  and  passed  her. 
This  happened  morning  after  morning.  I  had  never 
spoken  to  her,  except  for  a  few  casual  words,  and  yet 
her  name  was  like  a  summons  to  all  my  foolish  blood. 

Her  image  accompanied  me  even  in  places  the  most 
hostile  to  romance.  On  Saturday  evenings  when  my 
aunt  went  marketing  I  had  to  go  to  carry  some  of 
the  parcels.  We  walked  through  the  flaring  streets, 
jostled  by  drunken  men  and  bargaining  women,  amid 
the  curses  of  labourers,  the  shrill  litanies  of  shop- 
boys  who  stood  on  guard  by  the  barrels  of  pigs' 
cheeks,  the  nasal  chanting  of  street-singers,  who  sang 
a  come-all-you  about  O 'Donovan  Rossa,  or  a  ballad 
about  the  troubles  in  our  native  land.  These  noises 
converged  in  a  single  sensation  of  life  for  me :  I 
imagined  that  I  bore  my  chalice  safely  through  a 
throng  of  foes.  Her  name  sprang  to  my  lips  at 
moments  in  strange  prayers  and  praises  which  I 
myself  did  not  understand.  My  eyes  were  often 
full  of  tears  (I  could  not  tell  why)  and  at  times  a  flood 
from  my  heart  seemed  to  pour  itself  out  into  my 
bosom.  I  thought  little  of  the  future.  I  did  not 
know  whether  I  would  ever  speak  to  her  or  not  or, 
if  I  spoke  to  her,  how  I  could  tell  her  of  my  confused 
adoration.  But  my  body  was  like  a  harp  and  her 
words  and  gestures  were  like  fingers  running  upon  the 
wires. 

One  evening  I  went  into  the  back  drawing-room 


36  DUBLINERS 

in  which  the  priest  had  died.  It  was  a  dark  rainy 
evening  and  there  was  no  sound  in  the  house. 
Through  one  of  the  broken  panes  I  heard  the  rain 
impinge  upon  the  earth,  the  fine  incessant  needles 
of  water  playing  in  the  sodden  beds.  Some  distant 
lamp  or  lighted  window  gleamed  below  me.  I  was 
thankful  that  I  could  see  so  little.  All  my  senses 
seemed  to  desire  to  veil  themselves  and,  feeling  that 
I  was  about  to  slip  from  them,  I  pressed  the  palms  of 
my  hands  together  until  they  trembled,  murmuring : 
'  0  love !  0  love  ! '  many  times. 

At  last  she  spoke  to  me.  When  she  addressed  the 
first  words  to  me  I  was  so  confused  that  I  did  not 
know  what  to  answer.  She  asked  me  was  I  going  to 
Araby.  I  forget  whether  I  answered  yes  or  no. 
It  would  be  a  splendid  bazaar,  she  said  she  would 
love  to  go. 

4  And  why  can't  you  ?  '   I  asked. 

While  she  spoke  she  turned  a  silver  bracelet  round 
and  round  her  wrist.  She  could  not  go,  she  said, 
because  there  would  be  a  retreat  that  week  in  her 
convent.  Her  brother  and  two  other  boys  were  fight- 
ing for  their  caps  and  I  was  alone  at  the  railings.  She 
held  one  of  the  spikes,  bowing  her  head  towards  me. 
The  light  from  the  lamp  opposite  our  door  caught  the 
white  curve  of  her  neck,  lit  up  her  hair  that  rested 
there  and,  falling,  lit  up  the  hand  upon  the  railing. 
It  fell  over  one  side  of  her  dress  and  caught  the  white 
border  of  a  petticoat,  just  visible  as  she  stood  at  ease. 

1  It's  well  for  you,'  she  said. 

4  If  I  go,'  I  said,  '  I  will  bring  you  something.' 


ARABY  87 

What  innumerable  follies  laid  waste  my  waking 
and  sleeping  thoughts  after  that  evening !  I  wished 
to  annihilate  the  tedious  intervening  days.  I  chafed 
against  the  work  of  school.  At  night  in  my  bedroom 
and  by  day  in  the  classroom  her  image  came  between 
me  and  the  page  I  strove  to  read.  The  syllables  of 
the  word  Araby  were  called  to  me  through  the  silence 
in  which  my  soul  luxuriated  and  cast  an  Eastern 
enchantment  over  me.  I  asked  for  leave  to  go  to  the 
bazaar  on  Saturday  night.  My  aunt  was  surprised 
and  hoped  it  was  not  some  Freemason  affair.  I 
answered  few  questions  in  class.  I  watched  my 
master's  face  pass  from  amiability  to  sternness  ;  he 
hoped  I  was  not  beginning  to  idle.  I  could  not  call 
my  wandering  thoughts  together.  I  had  hardly  any 
patience  with  the  serious  work  of  life  which,  now  that 
it  stood  between  me  and  my  desire,  seemed  to  me 
child's  play,  ugly  monotonous  child's  play. 

On  Saturday  morning  I  reminded  my  uncle  that 
I  wished  to  go  to  the  bazaar  in  the  evening.  He  was 
fussing  at  the  hallstand,  looking  for  the  hat-brush, 
and  answered  me  curtly  : 

'Yes,  boy,  I  know.' 

As  he  was  in  the  hall  I  could  not  go  into  the  front 
parlour  and  lie  at  the  window.  I  left  the  house  in 
bad  humour  and  walked  slowly  towards  the  school. 
The  air  was  pitilessly  raw  and  already  my  heart 
misgave  me. 

When  I  came  home  to  dinner  my  uncle  had  not 
yet  been  home.  Still  it  was  early.  I  sat  staring  at 
the  clock  for  some  time  and,  when  its  ticking  began 


38  DUBLINERS 

to  irritate  me,  I  left  the  room.  I  mounted  the  stair- 
case and  gained  the  upper  part  of  the  house.  The 
high  cold  empty  gloomy  rooms  liberated  me  and  I 
went  from  room  to  room  singing.  From  the  front 
window  I  saw  my  companions  playing  below  in  the 
street.  Their  cries  reached  me  weakened  and  in- 
distinct and,  leaning  my  forehead  against  the  cool 
glass,  I  looked  over  at  the  dark  house  where  she  lived. 
I  may  have  stood  there  for  an  hour,  seeing  nothing  but 
the  brown-clad  figure  cast  by  my  imagination,touched 
discreetly  by  the  lamplight  at  the  curved  neck,  at 
the  hand  upon  the  railings  and  at  the  border  below 
the  dress. 

When  I  came  downstairs  again  I  found  Mrs  Mercer 
sitting  at  the  fire.  She  was  an  old  garrulous  woman, 
a  pawnbroker's  widow,  who  collected  used  stamps 
for  some  pious  purpose.  I  had  to  endure  the  gossip 
of  the  tea-table.  The  meal  was  prolonged  beyond 
an  hour  and  still  my  uncle  did  not  come.  Mrs  Mercer 
stood  up  to  go  :  she  was  sorry  she  couldn't  wait  any 
longer,  but  it  was  after  eight  o'clock  and  she  did  not 
like  to  be  out  late,  as  the  night  air  was  bad  for  her. 
When  she  had  gone  I  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  room,  clenching  my  fists.     My  aunt  said  : 

6  I'm  afraid  you  may  put  off  your  bazaar  for  this 
night  of  Our  Lord.' 

At  nine  o'clock  I  heard  my  uncle's  latchkey  in  the 
halldoor.  I  heard  him  talking  to  himself  and  heard 
the  hallstand  rocking  when  it  had  received  the 
weight  of  his  overcoat.  I  could  interpret  these  signs. 
When  he  was  midway  through  his  dinner  I  asked  him 


ARABY  89 

to  give  me  the  money  to  go  to  the  bazaar.  He  had 
forgotten. 

1  The  people  are  in  bed  and  after  their  first  sleep 
now,'  he  said. 

I  did  not  smile.    My  aunt  said  to  him  energetically : 

4  Can't  you  give  him  the  money  and  let  him  go  ? 
You've  kept  him  late  enough  as  it  is.' 

My  uncle  said  he  was  very  sorry  he  had  forgotten. 
He  said  he  believed  in  the  old  saying  :  '  All  work  and 
no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy.'  He  asked  me  where 
I  was  going  and,  when  I  had  told  him  a  second  time 
he  asked  me  did  I  know  The  Arab's  Farewell  to  his 
Steed.  When  I  left  the  kitchen  he  was  about  to  recite 
the  opening  lines  of  the  piece  to  my  aunt. 

I  held  a  florin  tightly  in  my  hand  as  I  strode  down 
Buckingham  Street  towards  the  station.  The  sight 
of  the  streets  thronged  with  buyers  and  glaring  with 
gas  recalled  to  me  the  purpose  of  my  journey.  I  took 
my  seat  in  a  third-class  carriage  of  a  deserted  train. 
After  an  intolerable  delay  the  train  moved  out  of  the 
station  slowly.  It  crept  onward  among  ruinous 
houses  and  over  the  twinkling  river.  At  Westland 
Row  Station  a  crowd  of  people  pressed  to  the  carriage 
doors  ;  but  the  porters  moved  them  back,  saying  that 
it  was  a  special  train  for  the  bazaar.  I  remained 
alone  in  the  bare  carriage.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
train  drew  up  beside  an  improvised  wooden  platform. 
I  passed  out  on  to  the  road  and  saw  by  the  lighted 
dial  of  a  clock  that  it  was  ten  minutes  to  ten.  In 
front  of  me  was  a  large  building  which  displayed  the 
magical  name. 


40  DUBLINERS 

I  could  not  find  any  sixpenny  entrance  and,  fearing 
that  the  bazaar  would  be  closed,  I  passed  in  quickly 
through  a  turnstile,  handing  a  shilling  to  a  weary- 
looking  man.  I  found  myself  in  a  big  hall  girdled 
at  half  its  height  by  a  gallery.  Nearly  all  the  stalls 
were  closed  and  the  greater  part  of  the  hall  was  in 
darkness.  I  recognised  a  silence  like  that  which 
pervades  a  church  after  a  service.  I  walked  into  the 
centre  of  the  bazaar  timidly.  A  few  people  were 
gathered  about  the  stalls  which  were  still  open. 
Before  a  curtain,  over  which  the  words  Cafe  Chantant 
were  written  in  coloured  lamps,  two  men  were  count- 
ing money  on  a  salver.  I  listened  to  the  fall  of  the 
coins. 

Remembering  with  difficulty  why  I  had  come  I 
went  over  to  one  of  the  stalls  and  examined  porcelain 
vases  and  flowered  tea-sets.  At  the  door  of  the  stall 
a  young  lady  was  talking  and  laughing  with  two 
young  gentlemen.  I  remarked  their  English  accents 
and  listened  vaguely  to  their  conversation. 

'  O,  I  never  said  such  a  thing  ! ' 

1  O,  but  you  did  !  ' 

4  O,  but  I  didn't ! ' 

'  Didn't  she  say  that  ?  ' 

4  Yes.     I  heard  her.' 

'  O,  there's  a  ...  fib  ! ' 

Observing  me  the  young  lady  came  over  and  asked 
me  did  I  wish  to  buy  anything.  The  tone  of  her 
voice  was  not  encouraging ;  she  seemed  to  have 
spoken  to  me  out  of  a  sense  of  duty.  I  looked 
humbly  at  the  great  jars  that  stood  like  eastern 


ARABY  41 

guards  at  either  side  of  the  dark  entrance  to  the  stall 
and  murmured : 

'No,  thank  you.' 

The  young  lady  changed  the  position  of  one  of  the 
vases  and  went  back  to  the  two  young  men.  They 
began  to  talk  of  the  same  subject.  Once  or  twice 
the  young  lady  glanced  at  me  over  her  shoulder. 

I  lingered  before  her  stall,  though  I  knew  my  stay 
was  useless,  to  make  my  interest  in  her  wares  seem 
the  more  real.  Then  I  turned  away  slowly  and 
walked  down  the  middle  of  the  bazaar.  I  allowed 
the  two  pennies  to  fall  against  the  sixpence  in  my 
pocket.  I  heard  a  voice  call  from  one  end  of  the 
gallery  that  the  light  was  out.  The  upper  part  of 
the  hall  was  now  completely  dark. 

Gazing  up  into  the  darkness  I  saw  myself  as  a 
creature  driven  and  derided  by  vanity  ;  and  my  eyes 
burned  with  anguish  and  anger. 


EVELINE 

She  sat  at  the  window  watching  the  evening  invade 
the  avenue.  Her  head  was  leaned  against  the 
window  curtains  and  in  her  nostrils  was  the  odour 
of  dusty  cretonne.     She  was  tired. 

Few  people  passed.  The  man  out  of  the  last  house 
passed  on  his  way  home ;  she  heard  his  footsteps 
clacking  along  the  concrete  pavement  and  afterwards 
crunching  on  the  cinder  path  before  the  new  red 
houses.  One  time  there  used  to  be  a  field  there  in 
which  they  used  to  play  every  evening  with  other 
people's  children.  Then  a  man  from  Belfast  bought 
the  field  and  built  houses  in  it — not  like  their  little 
brown  houses  but  bright  brick  houses  with  shining 
roofs.  The  children  of  the  avenue  used  to  play 
together  in  that  field — the  Devines,  the  Waters,  the 
Dunns,  little  Keogh  the  cripple,  she  and  her  brothers 
and  sisters.  Ernest,  however,  never  played :  he 
was  too  grown  up.  Her  father  used  often  to  hunt 
them  in  out  of  the  field  with  his  blackthorn  stick ; 
but  usually  little  Keogh  used  to  keep  nix  and  call  out 
when  he  saw  her  father  coming.  Still  they  seemed 
to  have  been  rather  happy  then.  Her  father  was 
not  so  bad  then  ;  and  besides,  her  mother  was  alive. 
That  was  a  long  time  ago  ;  she  and  her  brothers  and 
sisters  were  all  grown  up ;    her  mother  was  dead. 

42 


EVELINE  48 

Tizzie  Dunn  was  dead,  too,  and  the  Waters  had  gone 
back  to  England.  Everything  changes.  Now  she 
was  going  to  go  away  like  the  others,  to  leave  her 
home. 

Home !  She  looked  round  the  room,  reviewing 
all  its  familiar  objects  which  she  had  dusted  once 
a  week  for  so  many  years,  wondering  where  on  earth 
all  the  dust  came  from.  Perhaps  she  would  never 
see  again  those  familiar  objects  from  which  she  had 
never  dreamed  of  being  divided.  And  yet  during  all 
those  years  she  had  never  found  out  the  name  of  the 
priest  whose  yellowing  photograph  hung  on  the  wall 
above  the  broken  harmonium  beside  the  coloured 
print  of  the  promises  made  to  Blessed  Margaret  Mary 
Alacoque.  He  had  been  a  school  friend  of  her 
father.  Whenever  he  showed  the  photograph  to  a 
visitor  her  father  used  to  pass  it  with  a  casual  word  : 

4  He  is  in  Melbourne  now.' 

She  had  consented  to  go  away,  to  leave  her  home. 
Was  that  wise  ?  She  tried  to  weigh  each  side  of  the 
question.  In  her  home  anyway  she  had  shelter  and 
food  ;  she  had  those  whom  she  had  known  all  her  life 
about  her.  Of  course  she  had  to  work  hard,  both 
in  the  house  and  at  business.  What  would  they  say 
of  her  in  the  Stores  when  they  found  out  that  she 
had  run  away  with  a  fellow  ?  Say  she  was  a  fool, 
perhaps  ;  and  her  place  would  be  filled  up  by  adver- 
tisement. Miss  Gavan  would  be  glad.  She  had 
always  had  an  edge  on  her,  especially  whenever  there 
were  people  listening. 
.    -  Miss  Hill,  don't  you  see  these  ladies  are  waiting  ?  ' 


44  DUBLINERS 

4  Look  lively,  Miss  Hill,  please.' 

She  would  not  cry  many  tears  at  leaving  the 
Stores. 

But  in  her  new  home,  in  a  distant  unknown  country, 
it  would  not  be  like  that.  Then  she  would  be 
married — she,  Eveline.  People  would  treat  her  with 
respect  then.  She  would  not  be  treated  as  her 
mother  had  been.  Even  now,  though  she  was  over 
nineteen,  she  sometimes  felt  herself  in  danger  of  her 
father's  violence.  She  knew  it  was  that  that  had 
given  her  the  palpitations.  When  they  were  grow- 
ing up  he  had  never  gone  for  her,  like  he  used  to  go 
for  Harry  and  Ernest,  because  she  was  a  girl ;  but 
latterly  he  had  begun  to  threaten  her  and  say  what 
he  would  do  to  her  only  for  her  dead  mother's  sake. 
And  now  she  had  nobody  to  protect  her.  Ernest 
was  dead  and  Harry,  who  was  in  the  church  decorat- 
ing business,  was  nearly  always  down  somewhere  in 
the  country.  Besides,  the  invariable  squabble  for 
money  on  Saturday  nights  had  begun  to  weary  her 
unspeakably.  She  always  gave  her  entire  wages — 
seven  shillings — and  Harry  always  sent  up  what  he 
could  but  the  trouble  was  to  get  any  money  from  her 
father.  He  said  she  used  to  squander  the  money, 
that  she  had  no  head,  that  he  wasn't  going  to  give  her 
his  hard-earned  money  to  throw  about  the  streets, 
and  much  more,  for  he  was  usually  fairly  bad  on  Satur- 
day night.  In  the  end  he  would  give  her  the  money 
and  ask  her  had  she  any  intention  of  buying  Sunday's 
dinner.  Then  she  had  to  rush  out  as  quickly  as  she 
could  and  do  her   marketing,  holding  her  black 


EVELINE  45 

leather  purse  tightly  in  her  hand  as  she  elbowed  her 
way  through  the  crowds  and  returning  home  late 
under  her  load  of  provisions.  She  had  hard  work 
to  keep  the  house  together  and  to  see  that  the  two 
young  children  who  had  been  left  to  her  charge  went 
to  school  regularly  and  got  their  meals  regularly. 
It  was  hard  work — a  hard  life — but  now  that  she 
was  about  to  leave  it  she  did  not  find  it  a  wholly 
undesirable  life. 

She  was  about  to  explore  another  life  with  Frank. 
Frank  was  very  kind,  manly,  open-hearted.  She 
was  to  go  away  with  him  by  the  night-boat  to  be  his 
wife  and  to  live  with  him  in  Buenos  Ay  res  where  he 
had  a  home  waiting  for  her.  How  well  she  remem- 
bered the  first  time  she  had  seen  him ;  he  was  lodging 
in  a  house  on  the  main  road  where  she  used  to  visit. 
It  seemed  a  few  weeks  ago.  He  was  standing  at  the 
gate,  his  peaked  cap  pushed  back  on  his  head  and  his 
hair  tumbled  forward  over  a  face  of  bronze.  Then 
they  had  come  to  know  each  other.  He  used  to  meet 
her  outside  the  Stores  every  evening  and  see  her 
home.  He  took  her  to  see  The  Bohemian  Girl  and 
she  felt  elated  as  she  sat  in  an  unaccustomed  part  of 
the  theatre  with  him.  He  was  awfully  fond  of  music 
and  sang  a  little.  People  knew  that  they  were 
courting  and,  when  he  sang  about  the  lass  that  loves 
a  sailor,  she  always  felt  pleasantly  confused.  He 
used  to  call  her  Poppens  out  of  fun.  First  of  all  it 
had  been  an  excitement  for  her  to  have  a  fellow  and 
then  she  had  begun  to  like  him.  He  had  tales  of 
distant  countries.    He  had  started  as  a  deck  boy  at 


46  DUBLINERS 

a  pound  a  month  on  a  ship  of  the  Allan  Line  going 
out  to  Canada.  He  told  her  the  names  of  the  ships  he 
had  been  on  and  the  names  of  the  different  services. 
He  had  sailed  through  the  Straits  of  Magellan  and 
he  told  her  stories  of  the  terrible  Patagonians.  He 
had  fallen  on  his  feet  in  Buenos  Ayres,  he  said,  and 
had  come  over  to  the  old  country  just  for  a  holiday. 
Of  course,  her  father  had  found  out  the  affair  and 
had  forbidden  her  to  have  anything  to  say  to  him. 

1  I  know  these  sailor  chaps,'  he  said. 

One  day  he  had  quarrelled  with  Frank  and  after 
that  she  had  to  meet  her  lover  secretly. 

The  evening  deepened  in  the  avenue.  The  white 
of  two  letters  in  her  lap  grew  indistinct.  One  was 
to  Harry ;  the  other  was  to  her  father.  Ernest  had 
been  her  favourite  but  she  liked  Harry  too.  Her 
father  was  becoming  old  lately,  she  noticed ;  he  would 
miss  her.  Sometimes  he  could  be  very  nice.  Not 
long  before,  when  she  had  been  laid  up  for  a  day,  he 
had  read  her  out  a  ghost  story  and  made  toast  for 
her  at  the  fire.  Another  day,  when  their  mother  was 
alive,  they  had  all  gone  for  a  picnic  to  the  Hill  of 
Howth.  She  remembered  her  father  putting  on  her 
mother's  bonnet  to  make  the  children  laugh. 

Her  time  was  running  out  but  she  continued  to  sit 
by  the  window,  leaning  her  head  against  the  window 
curtain,  inhaling  the  odour  of  dusty  cretonne.  Down 
far  in  the  avenue  she  could  hear  a  street  organ  playing. 
She  knew  the  air.  Strange  that  it  should  come  that 
very  night  to  remind  her  of  the  promise  to  her  mother, 
her  promise  to  keep  the  home  together  as  long  as  she 


EVELINE  47 

could.  She  remembered  the  last  night  of  her  mother's 
illness  ;  she  was  again  in  the  close  dark  room  at  the 
other  side  of  the  hall  and  outside  she  heard  a 
melancholy  air  of  Italy.  The  organ-player  had 
been  ordered  to  go  away  and  given  sixpence.  She 
remembered  her  father  strutting  back  into  the 
sickroom  saying: 

*  Damned  Italians  !  coming  over  here  !  ■ 
As  she  mused  the  pitiful  vision  of  her  mother's  life 
laid  its  spell  on  the  very  quick  of  her  being — that  life 
of  commonplace  sacrifices  closing  in  final  craziness. 
She  trembled  as  she  heard  again  her  mother's  voice 
saying  constantly  with  foolish  insistence  : 
4  Derevaun  Seraun  !    Derevaun  Seraun  ! ' 
She  stood  up   in  a   sudden  impulse  of   terror. 
Escape  !    She  must  escape  !    Frank  would  save  her. 
He  would  give  her  life,  perhaps  love,  too.     But  she 
wanted   to   live.     Why   should   she  be  unhappy  ? 
She  had  a  right  to  happiness.     Frank  would  take  her 
in  his  arms,  fold  her  in  his  arms.    He  would  save  her. 

She  stood  among  the  swaying  crowd  in  the  station 
at  the  North  Wall.  He  held  her  hand  and  she  knew 
that  he  was  speaking  to  her,  saying  something  about 
the  passage  over  and  over  again.  The  station  was 
full  of  soldiers  with  brown  baggages.  Through  the 
wide  doors  of  the  sheds  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
black  mass  of  the  boat,  lying  in  beside  the  quay  wall, 
with  illumined  portholes.  She  answered  nothing. 
She  felt  her  cheek  pale  and  cold  and,  out  of  a  maze  of 
distress,  she  prayed  to  God  to  direct  her,  to  show  her 


48  DUBLINERS 

what  was  her  duty.  The  boat  blew  a  long  mournful 
whistle  into  the  mist.  If  she  went,  to-morrow  she 
would  be  on  the  sea  with  Frank,  steaming  towards 
Buenos  Ayres.  Their  passage  had  been  booked. 
Could  she  still  draw  back  after  all  he  had  done  for 
her  ?  Her  distress  awoke  a  nausea  in  her  body  and 
she  kept  moving  her  lips  in  silent  fervent  prayer. 

A  bell  clanged  upon  her  heart.  She  felt  him  seize 
her  hand : 

8  Come ! ' 

All  the  seas  of  the  world  tumbled  about  her  heart. 
He  was  drawing  her  into  them  :  he  would  drown  her. 
She  gripped  with  both  hands  at  the  iron  railing. 

4  Come ! ' 

No  !  No  !  No  !  It  was  impossible.  Her  hands 
clutched  the  iron  in  frenzy.  Amid  the  seas  she  sent 
a  cry  of  anguish  ! 

8  Eveline  !    E wy  ! ' 

He  rushed  beyond  the  barrier  and  called  to  her 
to  follow.  He  was  shouted  at  to  go  on  but  he  still 
called  to  her.  She  set  her  white  face  to  him,  passive, 
like  a  helpless  animal.  Her  eyes  gave  him  no  sign 
of  love  or  farewell  or  recognition. 


AFTER  THE  RACE 

The  cars  came  scudding  in  towards  Dublin,  running 
evenly  like  pellets  in  the  groove  of  the  Naas  Road. 
At  the  crest  of  the  hill  at  Inchicore  sightseers  had 
gathered  in  clumps  to  watch  the  cars  careering 
homeward  and  through  this  channel  of  poverty  and 
inaction  the  Continent  sped  its  wealth  and  industry. 
Now  and  again  the  clumps  of  people  raised  the  cheer 
of  the  gratefully  oppressed.  Their  sympathy,  how- 
ever, was  for  the  blue  cars — the  cars  of  their  friends, 
the  French. 

The  French,  moreover,  were  virtual  victors. 
Their  team  had  finished  solidly  ;  they  had  been 
placed  second  and  third  and  the  driver  of  the  winning 
German  car  was  reported  a  Belgian.  Each  blue  car, 
therefore,  received  a  double  measure  of  welcome  as 
it  topped  the  crest  of  the  hill  and  each  cheer  of 
welcome  was  acknowledged  with  smiles  and  nods  by 
those  in  the  car.  In  one  of  these  trimly  built  cars 
was  a  party  of  four  young  men  whose  spirits  seemed 
to  be  at  present  well  above  the  level  of  successful 
Gallicism  :  in  fact,  these  four  young  men  were  almost 
hilarious.  They  were  Charles  Segouin,  the  owner 
of  the  car ;  Andre  Riviere,  a  young  electrician  of 
Canadian  birth  ;  a  huge  Hungarian  named  Villona 
and  a  neatly  groomed  young  man  named  Doyle. 
d  49 


50  DUBLINERS 

Se*gouin  was  in  good  humour  because  he  had  un- 
expectedly received  some  orders  in  advance  (he  was 
about  to  start  a  motor  establishment  in  Paris)  and 
Riviere  was  in  good  humour  because  he  was  to  be 
appointed  manager  of  the  establishment ;  these  two 
young  men  (who  were  cousins)  were  also  in  good 
humour  because  of  the  success  of  the  French  cars. 
Villona  was  in  good  humour  because  he  had  had  a 
very  satisfactory  luncheon ;  and  besides  he  was  an 
optimist  by  nature.  The  fourth  member  of  the  party, 
however,  was  too  excited  to  be  genuinely  happy. 

He  was  about  twenty-six  years  of  age,  with  a  soft, 
light  brown  moustache  and  rather  innocent-looking 
grey  eyes.  His  father,  who  had  begun  life  as  an 
advanced  Nationalist,  had  modified  his  views  early. 
He  had  made  his  money  as  a  butcher  in  Kingstown 
and  by  opening  shops  in  Dublin  and  in  the  suburbs 
he  had  made  his  money  many  times  over.  He  had 
also  been  fortunate  enough  to  secure  some  of  the  police 
contracts  and  in  the  end  he  had  become  rich  enough 
to  be  alluded  to  in  the  Dublin  newspapers  as  a 
merchant  prince.  He  had  sent  his  son  to  England 
to  be  educated  in  a  big  Catholic  college  and  had 
afterwards  sent  him  to  Dublin  University  to  study 
law.  Jimmy  did  not  study  very  earnestly  and  took 
to  bad  courses  for  a  while.  He  had  money  and  he 
was  popular ;  and  he  divided  his  time  curiously 
between  musical  and  motoring  circles.  Then  he  had 
been  sent  for  a  term  to  Cambridge  to  see  a  little  life. 
His  father,  remonstrative,  but  covertly  proud  of  the 
excess,  had  paid  his  bills  and  brought  him  home. 


AFTER  THE  RACE  51 

It  was  at  Cambridge  that  he  had  met  Segouin.  They 
were  not  much  more  than  acquaintances  as  yet  but 
Jimmy  found  great  pleasure  in  the  society  of  one 
who  had  seen  so  much  of  the  world  and  was  reputed 
to  own  some  of  the  biggest  hotels  in  France.  Such 
a  person  (as  his  father  agreed)  was  well  worth  know- 
ing, even  if  he  had  not  been  the  charming  companion 
he  was.  Villona  was  entertaining  also — a  brilliant 
pianist — but,  unfortunately,  very  poor. 

The  car  ran  on  merrily  with  its  cargo  of  hilarious 
youth.  The  two  cousins  sat  on  the  front  seat ;  Jimmy 
and  his  Hungarian  friend  sat  behind.  Decidedly 
Villona  was  in  excellent  spirits  ;  he  kept  up  a  deep 
bass  hum  of  melody  for  miles  of  the  road.  The 
Frenchmen  flung  their  laughter  and  light  words 
over  their  shoulders  and  often  Jimmy  had  to  strain 
forward  to  catch  the  quick  phrase.  This  was  not 
altogether  pleasant  for  him,  as  he  had  nearly  always 
to  make  a  deft  guess  at  the  meaning  and  shout 
back  a  suitable  answer  in  the  face  of  a  high  wind. 
Besides  Villona 's  humming  would  confuse  anybody  ; 
the  noise  of  the  car,  too. 

Rapid  motion  through  space  elates  one ;  so  does 
notoriety  ;  so  does  the  possession  of  money.  These 
were  three  good  reasons  for  Jimmy's  excitement. 
He  had  been  seen  by  many  of  his  friends  that  day  in 
the  company  of  these  Continentals.  At  the  control 
Segouin  had  presented  him  to  one  of  the  French 
competitors  and,  in  answer  to  his  confused  murmur 
of  compliment,  the  swarthy  face  of  the  driver  had 
disclosed  a  line  of  shining  white  teeth.     It  was  pleas- 


52  DUBLINERS 

ant  after  that  honour  to  return  to  the  profane  world 
of  spectators  amid  nudges  and  significant  looks. 
Then  as  to  money — he  really  had  a  great  sum  under 
his  control.  Se'gouin,  perhaps,  would  not  think  it  a 
great  sum  but  Jimmy  who,  in  spite  of  temporary 
errors,  was  at  heart  the  inheritor  of  solid  instincts 
knew  well  with  what  difficulty  it  had  been  got  to- 
gether. This  knowledge  had  previously  kept  his  bills 
within  the  limits  of  reasonable  recklessness  and,  if 
he  had  been  so  conscious  of  the  labour  latent  in 
money  when  there  had  been  question  merely  of  some 
freak  of  the  higher  intelligence,  how  much  more  so 
now  when  he  was  about  to  stake  the  greater  part  of 
his  substance  !     It  was  a  serious  thing  for  him. 

Of  course,  the  investment  was  a  good  one  and 
Sdgouin  had  managed  to  give  the  impression  that  it 
was  by  a  favour  of  friendship  the  mite  of  Irish  money 
was  to  be  included  in  the  capital  of  the  concern. 
Jimmy  had  a  respect  for  his  father's  shrewdness  in 
business  matters  and  in  this  case  it  had  been  his  father 
who  had  first  suggested  the  investment ;  money  to  be 
made  in  the  motor  business,  pots  of  money.  More- 
over Segouin  had  the  unmistakable  air  of  wealth. 
Jimmy  set  out  to  translate  into  days'  work  that 
lordly  car  in  which  he  sat.  How  smoothly  it  ran. 
In  what  style  they  had  come  careering  along  the 
country  roads !  The  journey  laid  a  magical  finger 
on  the  genuine  pulse  of  life  and  gallantly  the 
machinery  of  human  nerves  strove  to  answer  the 
bounding  courses  of  the  swift  blue  animal. 

They  drove  down  Dame  Street.    The  street  was 


AFTER  THE  RACE  53 

busy  with  unusual  traffic,  loud  with  the  horns  of 
motorists  and  the  gongs  of  impatient  tram-drivers. 
Near  the  Bank  Segouin  drew  up  and  Jimmy  and  his 
friend  alighted.  A  little  knot  of  people  collected  on 
the  footpath  to  pay  homage  to  the  snorting  motor. 
The  party  was  to  dine  together  that  evening  in 
Segouin's  hotel  and,  meanwhile,  Jimmy  and  his 
friend,  who  was  staying  with  him,  were  to  go  home  to 
dress.  The  car  steered  out  slowly  for  Grafton  Street 
while  the  two  young  men  pushed  their  way  through 
the  knot  of  gazers.  They  walked  northward  with 
a  curious  feeling  of  disappointment  in  the  exercise, 
while  the  city  hung  its  pale  globes  of  light  above 
them  in  a  haze  of  summer  evening. 

In  Jimmy's  house  this  dinner  had  been  pronounced 
an  occasion.  A  certain  pride  mingled  with  his  parents' 
trepidation,  a  certain  eagerness,  also,  to  play  fast  and 
loose  for  the  names  of  great  foreign  cities  have  at  least 
this  virtue.  Jimmy,  too,  looked  very  well  when  he 
was  dressed  and,  as  he  stood  in  the  hall  giving  a  last 
equation  to  the  bows  of  his  dress  tie,  his  father  may 
have  felt  even  commercially  satisfied  at  having 
secured  for  his  son  qualities  often  unpurchasable. 
His  father,  therefore,  was  unusually  friendly  with 
Villona  and  his  manner  expressed  a  real  respect 
for  foreign  accomplishments ;  but  this  subtlety  of  his 
host  was  probably  lost  upon  the  Hungarian,  who  was 
beginning  to  have  a  sharp  desire  for  his  dinner. 

The  dinner  was  excellent,  exquisite.  Segouin, 
Jimmy  decided,  had  a  very  refined  taste.  The  party 
was  increased  by  a  young  Englishman  named  Routh 


54  DUBLINERS 

whom  Jimmy  had  seen  with  Sdgouin  at  Cambridge. 
The  young  men  supped  in  a  snug  room  lit  by  electric 
candle-lamps.  They  talked  volubly  and  with  little 
reserve.  Jimmy,  whose  imagination  was  kindling, 
conceived  the  lively  youth  of  the  Frenchmen  twined 
elegantly  upon  the  firm  framework  of  the  English- 
man's manner.  A  graceful  image  of  his,  he  thought, 
and  a  just  one.  He  admired  the  dexterity  with 
which  their  host  directed  the  conversation.  The  five 
young  men  had  various  tastes  and  their  tongues  had 
been  loosened.  Villona,  with  immense  respect, 
began  to  discover  to  the  mildly  surprised  Englishman 
the  beauties  of  the  English  madrigal,  deploring  the 
loss  of  old  instruments.  Riviere,  not  wholly  ingenu- 
ously, undertook  to  explain  to  Jimmy  the  triumph 
of  the  French  mechanicians.  The  resonant  voice  of 
the  Hungarian  was  about  to  prevail  in  ridicule  of 
the  spurious  lutes  of  the  romantic  painters  when 
S^gouin  shepherded  his  party  into  politics.  Here 
was  congenial  ground  for  all.  Jimmy,  under 
generous  influences,  felt  the  buried  zeal  of  his  father 
wake  to  life  within  him  :  he  aroused  the  torpid  Routh 
at  last.  The  room  grew  doubly  hot  and  S6gouin's 
task  grew  harder  each  moment :  there  was  even 
danger  of  personal  spite.  The  alert  host  at  an 
opportunity  lifted  his  glass  to  Humanity  and,  when 
the  toast  had  been  drunk,  he  threw  open  a  window 
significantly. 

That  night  the  city  wore  the  mask  of  a  capital. 
The  five  young  men  strolled  along  Stephen's  Green 
in  a  faint  cloud  of  aromatic  smoke.    They  talked 


AFTER  THE  RACE  55 

loudly  and  gaily  and  their  cloaks  dangled  from  their 
shoulders.  The  people  made  way  for  them.  At  the 
corner  of  Grafton  Street  a  short  fat  man  was  putting 
two  handsome  ladies  on  a  car  in  charge  of  another 
fat  man.  The  car  drove  off  and  the  short  fat  man 
caught  sight  of  the  party. 
'AndreV 

•  It's  Farley  ! ' 

A  torrent  of  talk  followed.  Farley  was  an 
American.  No  one  knew  very  well  what  the  talk  was 
about.  Villona  and  Riviere  were  the  noisiest,  but 
all  the  men  were  excited.  They  got  up  on  a  car, 
squeezing  themselves  together  amid  much  laughter. 
They  drove  by  the  crowd,  blended  now  into  soft 
colours,  to  a  music  of  merry  bells.  They  took  the 
train  at  Westland  Row  and  in  a  few  seconds,  as  it 
seemed  to  Jimmy,  they  were  walking  out  of  Kings- 
town Station.  The  ticket-collector  saluted  Jimmy  ; 
he  was  an  old  man  : 

4  Fine  night,  sir  ! ' 

It  was  a  serene  summer  night ;  the  harbour  lay 
like  a  darkened  mirror  at  their  feet.  They  proceeded 
towards  it  with  linked  arms,  singing  Cadet  Roussel 
in  chorus,  stamping  their  feet  at  every  : 

*  Ho  !    Ho  !    Hoh6,  vraiment !  ' 

They  got  into  a  rowboat  at  the  slip  and  made  out 
for  the  American's  yacht.  There  was  to  be  supper, 
music,  cards.     Villona  said  with  conviction : 

4  It  is  delightful ! ' 

There  was  a  yacht  piano  in  the  cabin.  Villona 
played  a  waltz  for  Farley  and  Riviere,  Farley  acting 


56  DUBLINERS 

as  cavalier  and  Riviere  as  lady.  Then  an  impromptu 
square  dance,  the  men  devising  original  figures. 
What  merriment !  Jimmy  took  his  part  with  a  will ; 
this  was  seeing  life,  at  least.  Then  Farley  got  out  of 
breath  and  cried  ■  Stop ! '  A  man  brought  in  a  light 
supper,  and  the  young  men  sat  down  to  it  for  form's 
sake.  They  drank,  however :  it  was  Bohemian. 
They  drank  Ireland,  England,  France,  Hungary,  the 
United  States  of  America.  Jimmy  made  a  speech, 
a  long  speech,  Villona  saying  :  '  Hear !  hear  !  ' 
whenever  there  was  a  pause.  There  was  a  great 
clapping  of  hands  when  he  sat  down.  It  must  have 
been  a  good  speech.  Farley  clapped  him  on  the  back 
and  laughed  loudly.  What  jovial  fellows  !  What 
good  company  they  were  ! 

Cards  !  cards  !  The  table  was  cleared.  Villona 
returned  quietly  to  his  piano  and  played  voluntaries 
for  them.  The  other  men  played  game  after  game, 
flinging  themselves  boldly  into  the  adventure.  They 
drank  the  health  of  the  Queen  of  Hearts  and  of  the 
Queen  of  Diamonds.  Jimmy  felt  obscurely  the  lack 
of  an  audience  :  the  wit  was  flashing.  Play  ran  very 
high  and  paper  began  to  pass.  Jimmy  did  not  know 
exactly  who  was  winning  but  he  knew  that  he  was 
losing.  But  it  was  his  own  fault  for  he  frequently 
mistook  his  cards  and  the  other  men  had  to  calculate 
his  I.O.U.'s  for  him.  They  were  devils  of  fellows 
but  he  wished  they  would  stop  :  it  was  getting  late. 
Someone  gave  the  toast  of  the  yacht  The  Belle  of 
Newport  and  then  someone  proposed  one  great  game 
for  a  finish. 


AFTER  THE  RACE  57 

The  piano  had  stopped  ;  Villona  must  have  gone 
up  on  deck.  It  was  a  terrible  game.  They  stopped 
just  before  the  end  of  it  to  drink  for  luck.  Jimmy 
understood  that  the  game  lay  between  Routh  and 
Segouin.  What  excitement!  Jimmy  was  excited 
too  ;  he  would  lose,  of  course.  How  much  had  he 
written  away  ?  The  men  rose  to  their  feet  to  play 
the  last  tricks,  talking  and  gesticulating.  Routh 
won.  The  cabin  shook  with  the  young  men's 
cheering  and  the  cards  were  bundled  together. 
They  began  then  to  gather  in  what  they  had  won. 
Farley  and  Jimmy  were  the  heaviest  losers. 

He  knew  that  he  would  regret  in  the  morning  but 
at  present  he  was  glad  of  the  rest,  glad  of  the  dark 
stupor  that  would  cover  up  his  folly.  He  leaned  his 
elbows  on  the  table  and  rested  his  head  between  his 
hands,  counting  the  beats  of  his  temples.  The  cabin 
door  opened  and  he  saw  the  Hungarian  standing  in  a 
shaft  of  grey  light : 

4  Daybreak,  gentlemen  ! ' 


TWO  GALLANTS 

The  grey  warm  evening  of  August  had  descended 
upon  the  city  and  a  mild  warm  air,  a  memory  of 
summer,  circulated  in  the  streets.  The  streets, 
shuttered  for  the  repose  of  Sunday,  swarmed  with 
a  gaily  coloured  crowd.  Like  illumined  pearls  the 
lamps  shone  from  the  summits  of  their  tall  poles  upon 
the  living  texture  below  which,  changing  shape  and 
hue  unceasingly,  sent  up  into  the  warm  grey  evening 
air  an  unchanging  unceasing  murmur. 

Two  young  men  came  down  the  hill  of  Rutland 
Square.  One  of  them  was  just  bringing  a  long 
monologue  to  a  close.  The  other,  who  walked  on  the 
verge  of  the  path  and  was  at  times  obliged  to  step 
on  to  the  road,  owing  to  his  companion's  rudeness, 
wore  an  amused  listening  face.  He  was  squat  and 
ruddy.  A  yachting  cap  was  shoved  far  back  from 
his  forehead  and  the  narrative  to  which  he  listened 
made  constant  waves  of  expression  break  forth 
over  his  face  from  the  corners  of  his  nose  and  eyes 
andmouth.  Little  jets  of  wheezing  laughter  followed 
one  another  out  of  his  convulsed  body.  His  eyes, 
twinkling  with  cunning  enjoyment,  glanced  at  every 
moment  towards  his  companion's  face.  Once  or 
twice  he  rearranged  the  light  waterproof  which  he 
had  slung  over  one  shoulder  in  toreador  fashion. 

58 


TWO  GALLANTS  59 

His  breeches,  his  white  rubber  shoes  and  his  jauntily 
slung  waterproof  expressed  youth.  But  his  figure 
fell  into  rotundity  at  the  waist,  his  hair  was  scant  and 
grey  and  his  face,  when  the  waves  of  expression  had 
passed  over  it,  had  a  ravaged  look. 

When  he  was  quite  sure  that  the  narrative  had 
ended  he  laughed  noiselessly  for  fully  half  a  minute. 
Then  he  said : 

1  Well !  .  .  .  That  takes  the  biscuit !  \ 

His  voice  seemed  winnowed  of  vigour ;  and  to 
enforce  his  words  he  added  with  humour : 

'That  takes  the  solitary,  unique,  and,  if  I  may 
so  call  it,  recherchi  biscuit ! ' 

He  became  serious  and  silent  when  he  had  said  this. 
His  tongue  was  tired  for  he  had  been  talking  all  the 
afternoon  in  a  public-house  in  Dorset  Street.  Most 
people  considered  Lenehan  a  leech  but,  in  spite  of 
this  reputation,  his  adroitness  and  eloquence  had 
always  prevented  his  friends  from  forming  any  general 
policy  against  him.  He  had  a  brave  manner  of 
coming  up  to  a  party  of  them  in  a  bar  and  of  holding 
himself  nimbly  at  the  borders  of  the  company  until 
he  was  included  in  a  round.  He  was  a  sporting 
vagrant  armed  with  a  vast  stock  of  stories,  limericks 
and  riddles.  He  was  insensitive  to  all  kinds  of  dis- 
courtesy. No  one  knew  how  he  achieved  the  stern 
task  of  living,  but  his  name  was  vaguely  associated 
with  racing  tissues. 

1  And  where  did  you  pick  her  up,  Corley  ? J  he 
asked. 

Corley  ran  his  tongue  swiftly  along  his  upper  lip. 


60  DUBLINERS 

4  One  night,  man,'  he  said,  4 1  was  going  along 
Dame  Street  and  I  spotted  a  fine  tart  under  Water- 
house's  clock  and  said  good-night,  you  know.  So 
we  went  for  a  walk  round  by  the  canal  and  she  told 
me  she  was  a  slavey  in  a  house  in  Baggot  Street. 
I  put  my  arm  round  her  and  squeezed  her  a  bit 
that  night.  Then  next  Sunday,  man,  I  met  her 
by  appointment.  We  went  out  to  Donny brook  and  I 
brought  her  into  a  field  there.  She  told  me  she  used 
to  go  with  a  dairyman.  ...  It  was  fine,  man. 
Cigarettes  every  night  she'd  bring  me  and  paying  the 
tram  out  and  back.  And  one  night  she  brought  me 
two  bloody  fine  cigars — O,  the  real  cheese,  you  know, 
that  the  old  fellow  used  to  smoke.  ...  I  was  afraid, 
man,  she'd  get  in  the  family  way.  But  she's  up  to 
the  dodge. ' 

4  Maybe  she  thinks  you'll  marry  her,'  said  Lenehan. 

4 1  told  her  I  was  out  of  a  job,'  said  Corley.  4 1 
told  her  I  was  in  Pirn's.  She  doesn't  know  my  name. 
I  was  too  hairy  to  tell  her  that.  But  she  thinks  I'm 
a  bit  of  class,  you  know.' 

Lenehan  laughed  again,  noiselessly. 

4  Of  all  the  good  ones  ever  I  heard,'  he  said,  4  that 
emphatically  takes  the  biscuit.' 

Corley's  stride  acknowledged  the  compliment. 
The  swing  of  his  burly  body  made  his  friend  execute 
a  few  light  skips  from  the  path  to  the  roadway  and 
back  again.  Corley  was  the  son  of  an  inspector  of 
police  and  he  had  inherited  his  father's  frame  and 
gait.  He  walked  with  his  hands  by  his  sides,  holding 
himself  erect  and  swaying  his  head  from  side  to  side. 


TWO  GALLANTS  61 

His  head  was  large,  globular  and  oily  ;  it  sweated  in 
all  weathers ;  and  his  large  round  hat,  set  upon  it 
sideways,  looked  like  a  bulb  which  had  grown  out  of 
another.  He  always  stared  straight  before  him  as  if 
he  were  on  parade  and,  when  he  wished  to  gaze  after 
someone  in  the  street,  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
move  his  body  from  the  hips.  At  present  he  was 
about  town.  Whenever  any  job  was  vacant  a  friend 
was  always  ready  to  give  him  the  hard  word.  He 
was  often  to  be  seen  walking  with  policemen  in  plain 
clothes,  talking  earnestly.  He  knew  the  inner  side  of 
all  affairs  and  was  fond  of  delivering  final  judgments. 
He  spoke  without  listening  to  the  speech  of  his  com- 
panions. His  conversation  was  mainly  about  himself  : 
what  he  had  said  to  such  a  person  and  what  such  a 
person  had  said  to  him  and  what  he  had  said  to  settle 
the  matter.  When  he  reported  these  dialogues  he 
aspirated  the  first  letter  of  his  name  after  the  manner 
of  Florentines. 

Lenehan  offered  his  friend  a  cigarette.  As  the  two 
young  men  walked  on  through  the  crowd  Corley 
occasionally  turned  to  smile  at  some  of  the  passing 
girls  but  Lenehan's  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  large  faint 
moon  circled  with  a  double  halo.  He  watched 
earnestly  the  passing  of  the  grey  web  of  twilight 
across  its  face.    At  length  he  said  : 

*  Well  .  .  .  tell  me,  Corley,  I  suppose  you'll  be 
able  to  pull  it  off  all  right,  eh  ?  ' 

Corley  closed  one  eye  expressively  as  an  answer. 

1  Is  she  game  for  that  ? '  asked  Lenehan  dubiously. 
4  You  can  never  know  women.' 


62  DUBLINERS 

4  She's  all  right,'  said  Corley.  '  I  know  the  way  to 
get  around  her,  man.     She's  a  bit  gone  on  me. ' 

'  You're  what  I  call  a  gay  Lothario,'  said  Lenehan. 
1  And  the  proper  kind  of  a  Lothario,  too  ! ' 

A  shade  of  mockery  relieved  the  servility  of  his 
manner.  To  save  himself  he  had  the  habit  of  leaving 
his  flattery  open  to  the  interpretation  of  raillery. 
But  Corley  had  not  a  subtle  mind. 

I  There's  nothing  to  touch  a  good  slavey,'  he 
affirmed.     '  Take  my  tip  for  it.' 

4  By  one  who  has  tried  them  all,'  said  Lenehan. 

4  First  I  used  to  go  with  girls,  you  know,'  said 
Corley,  unbosoming ;  4  girls  off  the  South  Circular. 
I  used  to  take  them  out,  man,  on  the  tram  somewhere 
and  pay  the  tram  or  take  them  to  a  band  or  a  play 
at  the  theatre  or  buy  them  chocolate  and  sweets  or 
something  that  way.  I  used  to  spend  money  on  them 
right  enough,'  he  added,  in  a  convincing  tone,  as  if  he 
were  conscious  of  being  disbelieved. 

But  Lenehan  could  well  believe  it ;  he  nodded 
gravely. 

I I  know  that  game,'  he  said,  4  and  it's  a  mug's 
game.' 

4  And  damn  the  thing  I  ever  got  out  of  it,'  said 
Corley. 

4  Ditto  here,'  said  Lenehan. 

4  Only  off  of  one  of  them,'  said  Corley. 

He  moistened  his  upper  lip  by  running  his  tongue 
along  it.  The  recollection  brightened  his  eyes.  He 
too  gazed  at  the  pale  disc  of  the  moon,  now  nearly 
veiled,  and  seemed  to  meditate. 


TWO  GALLANTS  68 

'She  was  ...  a  bit  of  all  right,'  he  said 
regretfully. 

He  was  silent  again.     Then  he  added  : 

4  She's  on  the  turf  now.  I  saw  her  driving  down 
Earl  Street  one  night  with  two  fellows  with  her  on  a 
car.' 

4 1  suppose  that's  your  doing,'  said  Lenehan. 

*  There  was  others  at  her  before  me,'  said  Corley 
philosophically. 

This  time  Lenehan  was  inclined  to  disbelieve.  He 
shook  his  head  to  and  fro  and  smiled. 

4  You  know  you  can't  kid  me,  Corley,'  he  said. 

4  Honest  to  God  ! '  said  Corley.  4  Didn't  she  tell 
me  herself  ?  ' 

Lenehan  made  a  tragic  gesture. 

4  Base  betrayer  ! '  he  said. 

As  they  passed  along  the  railings  of  Trinity  College, 
Lenehan  skipped  out  into  the  road  and  peered  up  at 
the  clock. 

4  Twenty  after,'  he  said. 

4  Time  enough,'  said  Corley.  4  She'll  be  there  all 
right.     I  always  let  her  wait  a  bit.' 

Lenehan  laughed  quietly. 

4  Ecod  I  Corley,  you  know  how  to  take  them,'  he 
said. 

4  I'm  up  to  all  their  little  tricks,'  Corley  confessed. 

4  But  tell  me,'  said  Lenehan  again,  4  are  you  sure 
you  can  bring  it  off  all  right?  You  know  it's  a 
ticklish  job.  They're  damn  close  on  that  point. 
Eh  ?  .  .  .  What  ?  ' 

His  bright,  small  eyes  searched  his  companion's 


64  DUBLINERS 

face  for  reassurance.  Corley  swung  his  head  to  and 
fro  as  if  to  toss  aside  an  insistent  insect,  and  his 
brows  gathered. 

1  I'll  pull  it  off,'  he  said.  '  Leave  it  to  me,  can't 
you?' 

Lenehan  said  no  more.  He  did  not  wish  to  ruffle 
his  friend's  temper,  to  be  sent  to  the  devil  and  told 
that  his  advice  was  not  wanted.  A  little  tact  was 
necessary.  But  Corley' s  brow  was  soon  smooth  again. 
His  thoughts  were  running  another  way. 

1  She's  a  fine  decent  tart,'  he  said,  with 
appreciation ;  '  that's  what  she  is.' 

They  walked  along  Nassau  Street  and  then  turned 
into  Kildare  Street.  Not  far  from  the  porch  of  the 
club  a  harpist  stood  in  the  roadway,  playing  to  a  little 
ring  of  listeners.  He  plucked  at  the  wires  heedlessly, 
glancing  quickly  from  time  to  time  at  the  face  of  each 
new-comer  and  from  time  to  time,  wearily  also,  at  the 
sky.  His  harp  too,  heedless  that  her  coverings  had 
fallen  about  her  knees,  seemed  weary  alike  of  the  eyes 
of  strangers  and  of  her  master's  hands.  One  hand 
played  in  the  bass  the  melody  of  Silent,  0  Moyle, 
while  the  other  hand  careered  in  the  treble  after  each 
group  of  notes.  The  notes  of  the  air  sounded  deep 
and  full. 

The  two  young  men  walked  up  the  street  without 
speaking,  the  mournful  music  following  them.  When 
they  reached  Stephen's  Green  they  crossed  the  road. 
Here  the  noise  of  trams,  the  lights  and  the  crowd 
released  them  from  their  silence. 

1  There  she  is  ! '  said  Corley. 


TWO  GALLANTS  65 

At  the  corner  of  Hume  Street  a  young  woman 
was  standing.  She  wore  a  blue  dress  and  a  white 
sailor  hat.  She  stood  on  the  curbstone,  swinging 
a  sunshade  in  one  hand.     Lenehan  grew  lively. 

4  Let's  have  a  look  at  her,  Corley,'  he  said. 

Corley  glanced  sideways  at  his  friend  and  an 
unpleasant  grin  appeared  on  his  face. 

4  Are  you  trying  to  get  inside  me  ?  '   he  asked. 

4  Damn  it ! '  said  Lenehan  boldly,  '  I  don't  want  an 
introduction.  All  1  want  is  to  have  a  look  at  her. 
I'm  not  going  to  eat  her.' 

4  O  ...  A  look  at  her  ?  '  said  Corley,  more 
amiably.  4  Well  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you  what.  I'll  go 
over  and  talk  to  her  and  you  can  pass  by.' 

4  Right ! '  said  Lenehan. 

Corley  had  already  thrown  one  leg  over  the  chains 
when  Lenehan  called  out : 

4  And  after  ?    Where  will  we  meet  ?  ' 

4  Half  ten,'  answered  Corley,  bringing  over  his 
other  leg. 

4  Where  ?  ' 

4  Corner  of  Merrion  Street.  We'll  be  coming 
back.' 

4  Work  it  all  right  now,'  said  Lenehan  in  farewell. 

Corley  did  not  answer.  He  sauntered  across  the 
road  swaying  his  head  from  side  to  side.  His  bulk, 
his  easy  pace,  and  the  solid  sound  of  his  boots  had 
something  of  the  conqueror  in  them.  He  approached 
the  young  woman  and,  without  saluting,  began  at 
once  to  converse  with  her.  She  swung  her  umbrella 
more  quickly  and  executed  half  turns  on  her  heels. 


W  DUBLINERS 

Once  or  twice  when  he  spoke  to  her  at  close  quarters 
she  laughed  and  bent  her  head. 

Lenehan  observed  them  for  a  few  minutes.  Then 
he  walked  rapidly  along  beside  the  chains  at  some 
distance  and  crossed  the  road  obliquely.  As  he 
approached  Hume  Street  corner  he  found  the  air 
heavily  scented  and  his  eyes  made  a  swift  anxious 
scrutiny  of  the  young  woman's  appearance.  She 
had  her  Sunday  finery  on.  Her  blue  serge  skirt  was 
held  at  the  waist  by  a  belt  of  black  leather.  The 
great  silver  buckle  of  her  belt  seemed  to  depress  the 
centre  of  her  body,  catching  the  light  stuff  of  her 
white  blouse  like  a  clip.  She  wore  a  short  black 
jacket  with  mother-of-pearl  buttons  and  a  ragged 
black  boa.  The  ends  of  her  tulle  collarette  had  been 
carefully  disordered  and  a  big  bunch  of  red  flowers 
was  pinned  in  her  bosom,  stems  upwards.  Lenehan's 
eyes  noted  approvingly  her  stout  short  muscular  body. 
Frank  rude  health  glowed  in  her  face,  on  her  fat  red 
cheeks  and  in  her  unabashed  blue  eyes.  Her  features 
were  blunt.  She  had  broad  nostrils,  a  straggling 
mouth  which  lay  open  in  a  contented  leer,  and  two 
projecting  front  teeth.  As  he  passed  Lenehan  took 
off  his  cap  and,  after  about  ten  seconds,  Corley 
returned  a  salute  to  the  air.  This  he  did  by  raising 
his  hand  vaguely  and  pensively  changing  the  angle 
of  position  of  his  hat. 

Lenehan  walked  as  far  as  the  Shelbourne  Hotel 
where  he  halted  and  waited.  After  waiting  for  a 
little  time  he  saw  them  coming  towards  him  and, 
when  they  turned  to  the  right,  he  followed  them, 


TWO  GALLANTS  67 

stepping  lightly  in  his  white  shoes,  down  one  side  of 
Merrion  Square.  As  he  walked  on  slowly,  timing 
his  pace  to  theirs,  he  watched  Corley's  head  which 
turned  at  every  moment  towards  the  young  woman's 
face  like  a  big  ball  revolving  on  a  pivot.  He  kept  the 
pair  in  view  until  he  had  seen  them  climbing  the  stairs 
of  the  Donnybrook  tram  ;  then  he  turned  about  and 
went  back  the  way  he  had  come. 

Now  that  he  was  alone  his  face  looked  older.  His 
gaiety  seemed  to  forsake  him,  and,  as  he  came  by  the 
railings  of  the  Duke's  Lawn,  he  allowed  his  hand 
to  run  along  them.  The  air  which  the  harpist  had 
played  began  to  control  his  movements.  His  softly 
padded  feet  played  the  melody  while  his  fingers  swept 
a  scale  of  variations  idly  along  the  railings  after  each 
group  of  notes. 

He  walked  listlessly  round  Stephen's  Green  and 
then  down  Grafton  Street.  Though  his  eyes  took 
note  of  many  elements  of  the  crowd  through  which 
he  passed  they  did  so  morosely.  He  found  trivial 
all  that  was  meant  to  charm  him  and  did  not  answer 
the  glances  which  invited  him  to  be  bold.  He  knew 
that  he  would  have  to  speak  a  great  deal,  to  invent 
and  to  amuse,  and  his  brain  and  throat  were  too  dry 
for  such  a  task.  The  problem  of  how  he  could  pass 
the  hours  till  he  met  Corley  again  troubled  him  a 
little.  He  could  think  of  no  way  of  passing  them  but 
to  keep  on  walking.  He  turned  to  the  left  when  he 
came  to  the  corner  of  Rutland  Square  and  felt  more  at 
ease  in  the  dark  quiet  street,  the  sombre  look  of  which 
suited  his  mood.    He  paused  at  last  before  the 


68  DUBLINERS 

window  of  a  poor-looking  shop  over  which  the  words 
Refreshment  Bar  were  printed  in  white  letters.  On 
the  glass  of  the  window  were  two  flying  inscriptions  : 
Ginger  Beer  and  Ginger  Ale.  A  cut  ham  was  exposed 
on  a  great  blue  dish  while  near  it  on  a  plate  lay  a 
segment  of  very  light  plum-pudding.  He  eyed  this 
food  earnestly  for  some  time  and  then,  after  glancing 
warily  up  and  down  the  street,  went  into  the  shop 
quickly. 

He  was  hungry  for,  except  some  biscuits  which 
he  had  asked  two  grudging  curates  to  bring  him, 
he  had  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast-time.  He  sat 
down  at  an  uncovered  wooden  table  opposite  two 
work-girls  and  a  mechanic.  A  slatternly  girl  waited 
on  him. 

1  How  much  is  a  plate  of  peas  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Three  halfpence,  sir,'  said  the  girl. 

4  Bring  me  a  plate  of  peas,'  he  said,  '  and  a  bottle 
of  ginger  beer.' 

He  spoke  roughly  in  order  to  belie  his  air  of 
gentility  for  his  entry  had  been  followed  by  a  pause 
of  talk.  His  face  was  heated.  To  appear  natural 
he  pushed  his  cap  back  on  his  head  and  planted  his 
elbows  on  the  table.  The  mechanic  and  the  two 
work-girls  examined  him  point  by  point  before 
resuming  their  conversation  in  a  subdued  voice. 
The  girl  brought  him  a  plate  of  grocer's  hot  peas, 
seasoned  with  pepper  and  vinegar,  a  fork  and  his 
ginger  beer.  He  ate  his  food  greedily  and  found  it 
so  good  that  he  made  a  note  of  the  shop  mentally. 
When  he  had  eaten  all  the  peas  he  sipped  his  ginger 


TWO  GALLANTS  69 

beer  and  sat  for  some  time  thinking  of  Corley's 
adventure.  In  his  imagination  he  beheld  the  pair 
of  lovers  walking  along  some  dark  road;  he  heard 
Corley's  voice  in  deep  energetic  gallantries  and  saw 
again  the  leer  of  the  young  woman's  mouth.  This 
vision  made  him  feel  keenly  his  own  poverty  of  purse 
and  spirit.  He  was  tired  of  knocking  about,  of  pull- 
ing the  devil  by  the  tail,  of  shifts  and  intrigues.  He 
would  be  thirty-one  in  November.  Would  he  never 
get  a  good  job  ?  Would  he  never  have  a  home  of  his 
own  ?  He  thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  have 
a  warm  fire  to  sit  by  and  a  good  dinner  to  sit  down  to. 
He  had  walked  the  streets  long  enough  with  friends 
and  with  girls.  He  knew  what  those  friends  were 
worth  :  he  knew  the  girls  too.  Experience  had 
embittered  his  heart  against  the  world.  But  all 
hope  had  not  left  him.  He  felt  better  after  having 
eaten  than  he  had  felt  before,  less  weary  of  his  life, 
less  vanquished  in  spirit.  He  might  yet  be  able  to 
settle  down  in  some  snug  corner  and  live  happily  if 
he  could  only  come  across  some  good  simple-minded 
girl  with  a  little  of  the  ready. 

He  paid  twopence  halfpenny  to  the  slatternly  girl 
and  went  out  of  the  shop  to  begin  his  wandering 
again.  He  went  into  Capel  Street  and  walked  along 
towards  the  City  Hall.  Then  he  turned  into  Dame 
Street.  At  the  corner  of  George's  Street  he  met  two 
friends  of  his  and  stopped  to  converse  with  them. 
He  was  glad  that  he  could  rest  from  all  his  walking. 
His  friends  asked  him  had  he  seen  Corley  and  what 
was  the  latest.    He  replied  that  he  had  spent  the  day 


70  DUBLINERS 

with  Corley.  His  friends  talked  very  little.  They 
looked  vacantly  after  some  figures  in  the  crowd  and 
sometimes  made  a  critical  remark.  One  said  that  he 
had  seen  Mac  an  hour  before  in  Westmoreland  Street. 
At  this  Lenehan  said  that  he  had  been  with  Mac  the 
night  before  in  Egan's.  The  young  man  who  had 
seen  Mac  in  Westmoreland  Street  asked  was  it  true 
that  Mac  had  won  a  bit  over  a  billiard  match. 
Lenehan  did  not  know  :  he  said  that  Holohan  had 
stood  them  drinks  in  Egan's. 

He  left  his  friends  at  a  quarter  to  ten  and  went  up 
George's  Street.  He  turned  to  the  left  at  the  City 
Markets  and  walked  on  into  Grafton  Street.  The 
crowd  of  girls  and  young  men  had  thinned  and  on  his 
way  up  the  street  he  heard  many  groups  and  couples 
bidding  one  another  good-night.  He  went  as  far  as 
the  clock  of  the  College  of  Surgeons  :  it  was  on  the 
stroke  of  ten.  He  set  off  briskly  along  the  northern 
side  of  the  Green,  hurrying  for  fear  Corley  should 
return  too  soon.  When  he  reached  the  corner  of 
Merrion  Street  he  took  his  stand  in  the  shadow  of  a 
lamp  and  brought  out  one  of  the  cigarettes  which  he 
had  reserved  and  lit  it.  He  leaned  against  the  lamp- 
post and  kept  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  part  from  which  he 
expected  to  see  Corley  and  the  young  woman  return. 

His  mind  became  active  again.  He  wondered  had 
Corley  managed  it  successfully.  He  wondered  if  he 
had  asked  her  yet  or  if  he  would  leave  it  to  the  last. 
He  suffered  all  the  pangs  and  thrills  of  his  friend's 
situation  as  well  as  those  of  his  own.  But  the  memory 
of  Corley 's  slowly  revolving  head  calmed  him  some- 


TWO  GALLANTS  71 

what :  he  was  sure  Corley  would  pull  it  off  all  right. 
All  at  once  the  idea  struck  him  that  perhaps  Corley 
had  seen  her  home  by  another  way  and  given  him  the 
slip.  His  eyes  searched  the  street :  there  was  no 
sign  of  them.  Yet  it  was  surely  half-an-hour  since 
he  had  seen  the  clock  of  the  College  of  Surgeons. 
Would  Corley  do  a  thing  like  that  ?  He  lit  his  last 
cigarette  and  began  to  smoke  it  nervously.  He 
strained  his  eyes  as  each  tram  stopped  at  the  far 
corner  of  the  square.  They  must  have  gone  home 
by  another  way.  The  paper  of  his  cigarette  broke 
and  he  flung  it  into  the  road  with  a  curse. 

Suddenly  he  saw  them  coming  towards  him.  He 
started  with  delight  and,  keeping  close  to  his  lamp- 
post, tried  to  read  the  result  in  their  walk.  They 
were  walking  quickly,  the  young  woman  taking 
quick  short  steps,  while  Corley  kept  beside  her  with 
his  long  stride.  They  did  not  seem  to  be  speaking. 
An  intimation  of  the  result  pricked  him  like  the 
point  of  a  sharp  instrument.  He  knew  Corley 
would  fail ;  he  knew  it  was  no  go. 

They  turned  down  Baggot  Street  and  he  followed 
them  at  once,  taking  the  other  footpath.  When  they 
stopped  he  stopped  too.  They  talked  for  a  few 
moments  and  then  the  young  woman  went  down  the 
steps  into  the  area  of  a  house.  Corley  remained 
standing  at  the  edge  of  the  path,  a  little  distance 
from  the  front  steps.  Some  minutes  passed.  Then 
the  hall-door  was  opened  slowly  and  cautiously. 
A  woman  came  running  down  the  front  steps  and 
coughed.     Corley   turned   and   went   towards   her. 


72  DUBLINERS 

His  broad  figure  hid  hers  from  view  for  a  few  seconds 
and  then  she  reappeared  running  up  the  steps.  The 
door  closed  on  her  and  Corley  began  to  walk  swiftly 
towards  Stephen's  Green. 

Lenehan  hurried  on  in  the  same  direction.  Some 
drops  of  light  rain  fell.  He  took  them  as  a  warning 
and,  glancing  back  towards  the  house  which  the 
young  woman  had  entered  to  see  that  he  was  not 
observed,  he  ran  eagerly  across  the  road.  Anxiety 
and  his  swift  run  made  him  pant.  He  called  out : 
'  Hallo,  Corley  ! ' 

Corley  turned  his  head  to  see  who  had  called  him, 
and  then  continued  walking  as  before.  Lenehan 
ran  after  him,  settling  the  waterproof  on  his 
shoulders  with  one  hand. 

1  Hallo,  Corley  ! '  he  cried  again. 
He  came  level  with  his  friend  and  looked  keenly 
in  his  face.     He  could  see  nothing  there. 
c  Well  ?  '  he  said.     •  Did  it  come  off  ?  ' 
They  had  reached  the  corner  of  Ely  Place.     Still 
without  answering  Corley  swerved  to  the  left  and 
went  up  the  side  street.     His  features  were  composed 
in  stern  calm.     Lenehan  kept  up  with  his  friend, 
breathing  uneasily.     He  was  baffled  and  a  note  of 
menace  pierced  through  his  voice. 

4  Can't  you  tell  us  ?  '  he  said.  '  Did  you  try  her  ?  ' 
Corley  halted  at  the  first  lamp  and  stared  grimly 
before  him.  Then  with  a  grave  gesture  he  extended 
a  hand  towards  the  light  and,  smiling,  opened  it 
slowly  to  the  gaze  of  his  disciple.  A  small  gold  coin 
shone  in  the  palm. 


THE  BOARDING  HOUSE 

Mrs  Mooney  was  a  butcher's  daughter.  She  was  a 
woman  who  was  quite  able  to  keep  things  to  herself  : 
a  determined  woman.  She  had  married  her  father's 
foreman  and  opened  a  butcher's  shop  near  Spring 
Gardens.  But  as  soon  as  his  father-in-law  was  dead 
Mr  Mooney  began  to  go  to  the  devil.  He  drank, 
plundered  the  till,  ran  headlong  into  debt.  It  was 
no  use  making  him  take  the  pledge  :  he  was  sure  to 
break  out  again  a  few  days  after.  By  fighting  his 
wife  in  the  presence  of  customers  and  by  buying  bad 
meat  he  ruined  his  business.  One  night  he  went  for 
his  wife  with  the  cleaver  and  she  had  to  sleep  in  a 
neighbour's  house. 

After  that  they  lived  apart.  She  went  to  the  priest 
and  got  a  separation  from  him  with  care  of  the 
children.  She  would  give  him  neither  money  nor 
food  nor  house-room ;  and  so  he  was  obliged  to  enlist 
himself  as  a  sheriff's  man.  He  was  a  shabby  stooped 
little  drunkard  with  a  white  face  and  a  white 
moustache  and  white  eyebrows,  pencilled  above 
his  little  eyes,  which  were  pink-veined  and  raw ; 
and  all  day  long  he  sat  in  the  bailiff's  room,  waiting 
to  be  put  on  a  job.  Mrs  Mooney,  who  had  taken 
what  remained  of  her  money  out  of  the  butcher 
business  and  set  up  a  boarding-house  in  Hardwicke 
Street,  was  a  big  imposing  woman.  Her  house  had  a 
73 


74  DUBLINERS 

floating  population  made  up  of  tourists  from  Liver- 
pool and  the  Isle  of  Man  and,  occasionally,  artistes 
from  the  music  halls.  Its  resident  population  was 
made  up  of  clerks  from  the  city.  She  governed  the 
house  cunningly  and  firmly,  knew  when  to  give 
credit,  when  to  be  stern  and  when  to  let  things 
pass.  All  the  resident  young  men  spoke  of  her 
as  The  Madam. 

Mrs  Mooney's  young  men  paid  fifteen  shillings 
a  week  for  board  and  lodgings  (beer  or  stout  at 
dinner  excluded).  They  shared  in  common  tastes 
and  occupations  and  for  this  reason  they  were  very 
chummy  with  one  another.  They  discussed  with 
one  another  the  chances  of  favourites  and  outsiders. 
Jack  Mooney,  the  Madam's  son,  who  was  clerk  to  a 
commission  agent  in  Fleet  Street,  had  the  reputation 
of  being  a  hard  case.  He  was  fond  of  using  soldiers' 
obscenities :  usually  he  came  home  in  the  small 
hours.  When  he  met  his  friends  he  had  always  a 
good  one  to  tell  them  and  he  was  always  sure  to 
be  on  to  a  good  thing — that  is  to  say,  a  likely  horse 
or  a  likely  artiste.  He  was  also  handy  with  the  mits 
and  sang  comic  songs.  On  Sunday  nights  there 
would  often  be  a  reunion  in  Mrs  Mooney's  front 
drawing-room.  The  music-hall  artistes  would  oblige  ; 
and  Sheridan  played  waltzes  and  polkas  and  vamped 
accompaniments.  Polly  Mooney,  the  Madam's 
daughter,  would  also  sing.     She  sang  : 

*  Vm  a  .  .  .  naughty  girl. 
You  needn't  sham : 
You  know  I  am.1 


THE  BOARDING  HOUSE  75 

Polly  was  a  slim  girl  of  nineteen  ;  she  had  light  soft 
hair  and  a  small  full  mouth.  Her  eyes,  which  were 
grey  with  a  shade  of  green  through  them,  had  a  habit 
of  glancing  upwards  when  she  spoke  with  anyone, 
which  made  her  look  like  a  little  perverse  madonna. 
Mrs  Mooney  had  first  sent  her  daughter  to  be  a  typist 
in  a  corn-factor's  office  but,  as  a  disreputable  sheriff's 
man  used  to  come  every  other  day  to  the  office,  asking 
to  be  allowed  to  say  a  word  to  his  daughter,  she  had 
taken  her  daughter  home  again  and  set  her  to  do 
housework.  As  Polly  was  very  lively  the  intention 
was  to  give  her  the  run  of  the  young  men.  Besides, 
young  men  like  to  feel  that  there  is  a  young  woman 
not  very  far  away.  Polly,  of  course,  flirted  with  the 
young  men  but  Mrs  Mooney,  who  was  a  shrewd  judge, 
knew  that  the  young  men  were  only  passing  the  time 
away  :  none  of  them  meant  business.  Things  went 
on  so  for  a  long  time  and  Mrs  Mooney  began  to  think 
of  sending  Polly  back  to  typewriting  when  she 
noticed  that  something  was  going  on  between  Polly 
and  one  of  the  young  men.  She  watched  the  pair 
and  kept  her  own  counsel. 

Polly  knew  that  she  was  being  watched,  but  still 
her  mother's  persistent  silence  could  not  be  mis- 
understood. There  had  been  no  open  complicity 
between  mother  and  daughter,  no  open  understanding 
but,  though  people  in  the  house  began  to  talk  of  the 
affair,  still  Mrs  Mooney  did  not  intervene.  Polly 
began  to  grow  a  little  strange  in  her  manner  and  the 
young  man  was  evidently  perturbed.  At  last,  when 
she  judged  it  to  be  the  right  moment,  Mrs  Mooney 


76  DUBLINERS 

intervened.  She  dealt  with  moral  problems  as  a 
cleaver  deals  with  meat :  and  in  this  case  she  had 
made  up  her  mind. 

It  was  a  bright  Sunday  morning  of  early  summer, 
promising  heat,  but  with  a  fresh  breeze  blowing. 
All  the  windows  of  the  boarding  house  were  open  and 
the  lace  curtains  ballooned  gently  towards  the  street 
beneath  the  raised  sashes.  The  belfry  of  George's 
Church  sent  out  constant  peals  and  worshippers, 
singly  or  in  groups,  traversed  the  little  circus  before 
the  church,  revealing  their  purpose  by  their  self- 
contained  demeanour  no  less  than  by  the  little 
volumes  in  their  gloved  hands.  Breakfast  was  over 
in  the  boarding  house  and  the  table  of  the  breakfast- 
room  was  covered  with  plates  on  which  lay  yellow 
streaks  of  eggs  with  morsels  of  bacon-fat  and  bacon- 
rind.  Mrs  Mooney  sat  in  the  straw  arm-chair  and 
watched  the  servant  Mary  remove  the  breakfast 
things.  She  made  Mary  collect  the  crusts  and  pieces 
of  broken  bread  to  help  to  make  Tuesday's  bread- 
pudding.  When  the  table  was  cleared,  the  broken 
bread  collected,  the  sugar  and  butter  Safe  under  lock 
and  key,  she  began  to  reconstruct  the  interview  which 
she  had  had  the  night  before  with  Polly.  Things  were 
as  she  had  suspected  :  she  had  been  frank  in  her 
questions  and  Polly  had  been  frank  in  her  answers. 
Both  had  been  somewhat  awkward,  of  course.  She 
had  been  made  awkward  by  her  not  wishing  to  receive 
the  news  in  too  cavalier  a  fashion  or  to  seem  to  have 
connived  and  Polly  had  been  made  awkward  not 
merely  because  allusions  of  that  kind  always  made 


THE  BOARDING  HOUSE  77 

her  awkward  but  also  because  she  did  not  wish  it  to 
be  thought  that  in  her  wise  innocence  she  had  divined 
the  intention  behind  her  mother's  tolerance. 

Mrs  Mooney  glanced  instinctively  at  the  little 
gilt  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  as  soon  as  she  had 
become  aware  through  her  revery  that  the  bells  of 
George's  Church  had  stopped  ringing.  It  was 
seventeen  minutes  past  eleven  :  she  would  have  lots 
of  time  to  have  the  matter  out  with  Mr  Doran  and 
then  catch  short  twelve  at  Marlborough  Street. 
She  was  sure  she  would  win.  To  begin  with  she  had 
all  the  weight  of  social  opinion  on  her  side  :  she  was 
an  outraged  mother.  She  had  allowed  him  to  live 
beneath  her  roof,  assuming  that  he  was  a  man  of 
honour,  and  he  had  simply  abused  her  hospitality. 
He  was  thirty-four  or  thirty-five  years  of  age,  so  that 
youth  could  not  be  pleaded  as  his  excuse  ;  nor  could 
ignorance  be  his  excuse  since  he  was  a  man  who 
had  seen  something  of  the  world.  He  had  simply 
taken  advantage  of  Polly's  youth  and  inexperience : 
that  was  evident.  The  question  was :  What 
reparation  would  he  make  ? 

There  must  be  reparation  made  in  such  case.  It 
is  all  very  well  for  the  man  :  he  can  go  his  ways  as 
if  nothing  had  happened,  having  had  his  moment  of 
pleasure,  but  the  girl  has  to  bear  the  brunt.  Some 
mothers  would  be  content  to  patch  up  such  an  affair 
for  a  sum  of  money  ;  she  had  known  cases  of  it.  But 
she  would  not  do  so.  For  her  only  one  reparation 
could  make  up  for  the  loss  of  her  daughter's  honour : 
marriage. 


78  DUBLINERS 

She  counted  all  her  cards  again  before  sending  Mary 
up  to  Mr  Doran's  room  to  say  that  she  wished  to  speak 
with  him.  She  felt  sure  she  would  win.  He  was 
a  serious  young  man,  not  rakish  or  loud-voiced  like 
the  others.  If  it  had  been  Mr  Sheridan  or  Mr  Meade 
or  Bantam  Lyons  her  task  would  have  been  much 
harder.  She  did  not  think  he  would  face  publicity. 
All  the  lodgers  in  the  house  knew  something  of  the 
affair  ;  details  had  been  invented  by  some.  Besides, 
he  had  been  employed  for  thirteen  years  in  a  great 
Catholic  wine-merchant's  office  and  publicity  would 
mean  for  him,  perhaps,  the  loss  of  his  job.  Whereas 
if  he  agreed  all  might  be  well.  She  knew  he  had  a 
good  screw  for  one  thing  and  she  suspected  he  had 
a  bit  of  stuff  put  by. 

Nearly  the  half -hour !  She  stood  up  and  surveyed 
herself  in  the  pier-glass.  The  decisive  expression  of 
her  great  florid  face  satisfied  her  and  she  thought  of 
some  mothers  she  knew  who  could  not  get  their 
daughters  off  their  hands. 

Mr  Doran  was  very  anxious  indeed  this  Sunday 
morning.  He  had  made  two  attempts  to  shave  but 
his  hand  had  been  so  unsteady  that  he  had  been 
obliged  to  desist.  Three  days'  reddish  beard  fringed 
his  jaws  and  every  two  or  three  minutes  a  mist 
gathered  on  his  glasses  so  that  he  had  to  take  them 
off  and  polish  them  with  his  pocket-handkerchief. 
The  recollection  of  his  confession  of  the  night  before 
was  a  cause  of  acute  pain  to  him  ;  the  priest  had 
drawn  out  every  ridiculous  detail  of  the  affair  and  in 
the  end  had  so  magnified  his  sin  that  he  was  almost 


THE  BOARDING  HOUSE  79 

thankful  at  being  afforded  a  loophole  of  reparation. 
The  harm  was  done.  What  could  he  do  now  but 
marry  her  or  run  away  ?  He  could  not  brazen  it  out. 
The  affair  would  be  sure  to  be  talked  of  and  his 
employer  would  be  certain  to  hear  of  it.  Dublin 
is  such  a  small  city  :  everyone  knows  everyone  else's 
business.  He  felt  his  heart  leap  warmly  in  his  throat 
as  he  heard  in  his  excited  imagination  old  Mr  Leonard 
calling  out  in  his  rasping  voice  :  '  Send  Mr  Doran 
here,  please.' 

All  his  long  years  of  service  gone  for  nothing  ! 
All  his  industry  and  diligence  thrown  away  !  As  a 
young  man  he  had  sown  his  wild  oats,  of  course  ;  he 
had  boasted  of  his  free-thinking  and  denied  the 
existence  of  God  to  his  companions  in  public-houses. 
But  that  was  all  passed  and  done  with  .  .  .  nearly. 
He  still  bought  a  copy  of  Reynolds's  Newspaper  every 
week  but  he  attended  to  his  religious  duties  and  for 
nine-tenths  of  the  year  lived  a  regular  life.  He  had 
money  enough  to  settle  down  on ;  it  was  not  that. 
But  the  family  would  look  down  on  her.  First  of 
all  there  was  her  disreputable  father  and  then  her 
mother's  boarding  house  was  beginning  to  get  a 
certain  fame.  He  had  a  notion  that  he  was  being  had. 
He  could  imagine  his  friends  talking  of  the  affair  and 
laughing.  She  was  a  little  vulgar ;  sometimes  she 
said  •  I  seen  '  and  4  If  I  had've  known.'  But  what 
would  grammar  matter  if  he  really  loved  her  ?  He 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  whether  to  like  her  or 
despise  her  for  what  she  had  done.  Of  course,  he 
had  done  it  too.    His  instinct  urged  him  to  remain 


80  DUBLINERS 

free,  not  to  marry.     Once  you  are  married  you  are 
done  for,  it  said. 

While  he  was  sitting  helplessly  on  the  side  of  the 
bed  in  shirt  and  trousers  she  tapped  lightly  at  his  door 
and  entered.  She  told  him  all,  that  she  had  made 
a  clean  breast  of  it  to  her  mother  and  that  her  mother 
would  speak  with  him  that  morning.  She  cried  and 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  saying  : 

'  O,  Bob  !  Bob !  What  am  I  to  do  ?  What  am 
I  to  do  at  all  ?  ' 

She  would  put  an  end  to  herself,  she  said. 

He  comforted  her  feebly,  telling  her  not  to  cry, 
that  it  would  be  all  right,  never  fear.  He  felt  against 
his  shirt  the  agitation  of  her  bosom. 

It  was  not  altogether  his  fault  that  it  had  happened. 
He  remembered  well,  with  the  curious  patient  memory 
of  the  celibate,  the  first  casual  caresses  her  dress,  her 
breath,  her  fingers  had  given  him.  Then  late  one 
night  as  he  was  undressing  for  bed  she  had  tapped  at 
his  door,  timidly.  She  wanted  to  relight  her  candle 
at  his  for  hers  had  been  blown  out  by  a  gust.  It 
was  her  bath  night.  She  wore  a  loose  open  combing- 
jacket  of  printed  flannel.  Her  white  instep  shone 
in  the  opening  of  her  furry  slippers  and  the  blood 
glowed  warmly  behind  her  perfumed  skin.  From  her 
hands  and  wrists  too  as  she  lit  and  steadied  her  candle 
a  faint  perfume  arose. 

On  nights  when  he  came  in  very  late  it  was  she 
who  warmed  up  his  dinner.  He  scarcely  knew  what 
he  was  eating,  feeling  her  beside  him  alone,  at  night, 
in  the  sleeping  house.    And  her  thoughtfulness ! 


THE  BOARDING  HOUSE  81 

If  the  night  was  anyway  cold  or  wet  or  windy  there 
was  sure  to  be  a  little  tumbler  of  punch  ready  for  him. 
Perhaps  they  could  be  happy  together.  .  .  . 

They  used  to  go  upstairs  together  on  tiptoe,  each 
with  a  candle,  and  on  the  third  landing  exchange 
reluctant  good-nights.  They  used  to  kiss.  He 
remembered  well  her  eyes,  the  touch  of  her  hand 
and  his  delirium.  .  .  . 

But  delirium  passes.  He  echoed  her  phrase, 
applying  it  to  himself  :  *  What  am  I  to  do  ?  '  The 
instinct  of  the  celibate  warned  him  to  hold  back. 
But  the  sin  was  there ;  even  his  sense  of  honour 
told  him  that  reparation  must  be  made  for  such 
a  sin. 

While  he  was  sitting  with  her  on  the  side  of  the  bed 
Mary  came  to  the  door  and  said  that  the  missus 
wanted  to  see  him  in  the  parlour.  He  stood  up  to 
put  on  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  more  helpless  than 
ever.  When  he  was  dressed  he  went  over  to  her  to 
comfort  her.  It  would  be  all  right,  never  fear.  He 
left  her  crying  on  the  bed  and  moaning  sortly : 
'OmyGodr 

Going  down  the  stairs  his  glasses  became  so  dimmed 
with  moisture  that  he  had  to  take  them  off  and  polish 
them.  He  longed  to  ascend  through  the  roof  and  fly 
away  to  another  country  where  he  would  never  hear 
again  of  his  trouble,  and  yet  a  force  pushed  him 
downstairs  step  by  step.  The  implacable  faces  of  his 
employer  and  of  the  Madam  stared  upon  his  dis- 
comfiture. On  the  last  flight  of  stairs  he  passed  Jack 
Mooney  who  was  coming  up  from  the  pantry  nursing 


82  DUBLINERS 

two  bottles  of  Bass.  They  saluted  coldly  ;  and  the 
lover's  eyes  rested  for  a  second  or  two  on  a  thick 
bulldog  face  and  a  pair  of  thick  short  arms.  When 
he  reached  the  foot  of  the  staircase  he  glanced  up 
and  saw  Jack  regarding  him  from  the  door  of  the 
return-room. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  the  night  when  one  of 
the  music-hall  artistes,  a  little  blond  Londoner,  had 
made  a  rather  free  allusion  to  Polly.  The  reunion 
had  been  almost  broken  up  on  account  of  Jack's 
violence.  Everyone  tried  to  quiet  him.  The 
music-hall  artiste,  a  little  paler  than  usual,  kept 
smiling  and  saying  that  there  was  no  harm  meant : 
but  Jack  kept  shouting  at  him  that  if  any  fellow 
tried  that  sort  of  a  game  on  with  his  sister  he'd 
bloody  well  put  his  teeth  down  his  throat,  so  he 
would. 

Polly  sat  for  a  little  time  on  the  side  of  the  bed, 
crying.  Then  she  dried  her  eyes  and  went  over  to 
the  looking-glass.  She  dipped  the  end  of  the  towel 
in  the  water-jug  and  refreshed  her  eyes  with  the  cool 
water.  She  looked  at  herself  in  profile  and  re- 
adjusted a  hairpin  above  her  ear.  Then  she  went 
back  to  the  bed  again  and  sat  at  the  foot.  She 
regarded  the  pillows  for  a  long  time  and  the  sight  of 
them  awakened  in  her  mind  secret  amiable  memories. 
She  rested  the  nape  of  her  neck  against  the  cool  iron 
bed-rail  and  fell  into  a  revery.  There  was  no  longer 
any  perturbation  visible  on  her  face. 

She    waited    on    patiently,    almost    cheerfully, 


THE  BOARDING  HOUSE  83 

without  alarm,  her  memories  gradually  giving  place 
to  hopes  and  visions  of  the  future.  Her  hopes  and 
visions  were  so  intricate  that  she  no  longer  saw  the 
white  pillows  on  which  her  gaze  was  fixed  or  re- 
membered that  she  was  waiting  for  anything. 

At  last  she  heard  her  mother  calling.  She  started 
to  her  feet  and  ran  to  the  banisters. 

'Polly!    Polly!' 

4  Yes,  mamma  ?  ' 

4  Come  down,  dear.  Mr  Doran  wants  to  speak  to 
you.'  ^ 

Then  she  remembered  what  she  had  been  waiting 
for. 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD 

Eight  years  before  he  had  seen  his  friend  off  at  the 
North  Wall  and  wished  him  godspeed.  Gallaher  had 
got  on.  You  could  tell  that  at  once  by  his  travelled 
air,  his  well-cut  tweed  suit,  and  fearless  accent. 
Few  fellows  had  talents  like  his  and  fewer  still  could 
remain  unspoiled  by  such  success.  Gallaher' s  heart 
was  in  the  right  place  and  he  had  deserved  to  win. 
It  was  something  to  have  a  friend  like  that. 

Little  Chandler's  thoughts  ever  since  lunch -time 
had  been  of  his  meeting  with  Gallaher,  of  Gallaher's 
invitation  and  of  the  great  city  London  where 
Gallaher  lived.  He  was  called  Little  Chandler  be- 
cause, though  he  was  but  slightly  under  the  average 
stature,  he  gave  one  the  idea  of  being  a  little  man. 
His  hands  were  white  and  small,  his  frame  was  fragile, 
his  voice  was  quiet  and  his  manners  were  refined. 
He  took  the  greatest  care  of  his  fair  silken  hair  and 
moustache  and  used  perfume  discreetly  on  his  hand- 
kerchief. The  half -moons  of  his  nails  were  perfect 
and  when  he  smiled  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  row  of 
childish  white  teeth. 

As  he  sat  at  his  desk  in  the  King's  Inns  he  thought 
what  changes  those  eight  years  had  brought.  The 
friend  whom  he  had  known  under  a  shabby  and 
necessitous  guise  had  become  a  brilliant  figure  on  the 

84 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  85 

London  Press.  He  turned  often  from  his  tiresome 
writing  to  gaze  out  of  the  office  window.  The  glow 
of  a  late  autumn  sunset  covered  the  grass  plots  and 
walks.  It  cast  a  shower  of  kindly  golden  dust  on  the 
untidy  nurses  and  decrepit  old  men  who  drowsed  on 
the  benches ;  it  nickered  upon  all  the  moving  figures 
— on  the  children  who  ran  screaming  along  the  gravel 
paths  and  on  everyone  who  passed  through  the 
gardens.  He  watched  the  scene  and  thought  of  life  ; 
and  (as  always  happened  when  he  thought  of  life)  he 
became  sad.  A  gentle  melancholy  took  possession 
of  him.  He  felt  how  useless  it  was  to  struggle  against 
fortune,  this  being  the  burden  of  wisdom  which  the 
ages  had  bequeathed  to  him. 

He  remembered  the  books  of  poetry  upon  his 
shelves  at  home.  He  had  bought  them  in  his  bachelor 
days  and  many  an  evening,  as  he  sat  in  the  little 
room  off  the  hall,  he  had  been  tempted  to  take  one 
down  from  the  bookshelf  and  read  out  something  to 
his  wife.  But  shyness  had  always  held  him  back ;  and 
so  the  books  had  remained  on  their  shelves.  At  times 
he  repeated  lines  to  himself  and  this  consoled  him. 

When  his  hour  had  struck  he  stood  up  and  took 
leave  of  his  desk  and  of  his  fellow-clerks  punctiliously. 
He  emerged  from  under  the  feudal  arch  of  the  King's 
Inns,  a  neat  modest  figure,  and  walked  swiftly  down 
Henrietta  Street.  The  golden  sunset  was  waning 
and  the  air  had  grown  sharp.  A  horde  of  grimy 
children  populated  the  street.  They  stood  or  ran 
in  the  roadway  or  crawled  up  the  steps  before 
the  gaping  doors  or  squatted  like  mice  upon  the 


86  DUBLINERS 

thresholds.  Little  Chandler  gave  them  no  thought. 
He  picked  his  way  deftly  through  all  that  minute 
vermin-like  life  and  under  the  shadow  of  the  gaunt 
spectral  mansions  in  which  the  old  nobility  of 
Dublin  had  roystered.  No  memory  of  the  past 
touched  him,  for  his  mind  was  full  of  a  present  joy. 

He  had  never  been  in  Corless's  but  he  knew  the 
value  of  the  name.  He  knew  that  people  went  there 
after  the  theatre  to  eat  oysters  and  drink  liqueurs ; 
and  he  had  heard  that  the  waiters  there  spoke  French 
and  German.  Walking  swiftly  by  at  night  he  had 
seen  cabs  drawn  up  before  the  door  and  richly  dressed 
ladies,  escorted  by  cavaliers,  alight  and  enter  quickly. 
They  wore  noisy  dresses  and  many  wraps.  Their 
faces  were  powdered  and  they  caught  up  their 
dresses,  when  they  touched  earth,  like  alarmed 
Atalantas.  He  had  always  passed  without  turning 
his  head  to  look.  It  was  his  habit  to  walk  swiftly 
in  the  street  even  by  day  and  whenever  he  found 
himself  in  the  city  late  at  night  he  hurried  on  his  way 
apprehensively  and  excitedly.  Sometimes,  however, 
he  courted  the  causes  of  his  fear.  He  chose  the 
darkest  and  narrowest  streets  and,  as  he  walked 
boldly  forward,  the  silence  that  was  spread  about  his 
footsteps  troubled  him,  the  wandering  silent  figures 
troubled  him ;  and  at  times  a  sound  of  low  fugitive 
laughter  made  him  tremble  like  a  leaf. 

He  turned  to  the  right  towards  Capel  Street. 
Ignatius  Gallaher  on  the  London  Press  1  Who 
would  have  thought  it  possible  eight  years  before  ? 
Still,  now  that  he  reviewed  the  past,  Little  Chandler 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  87 

could  remember  many  signs  of  future  greatness  in  his 
friend.  People  used  to  say  that  Ignatius  Gallaher 
was  wild.  Of  course,  he  did  mix  with  a  rakish  set 
of  fellows  at  that  time,  drank  freely  and  borrowed 
money  on  all  sides.  In  the  end  he  had  got  mixed 
up  in  some  shady  affair,  some  money  transaction :  at 
least,  that  was  one  version  of  his  flight.  But  nobody 
denied  him  talent.  There  was  always  a  certain  .  .  . 
something  in  Ignatius  Gallaher  that  impressed  you 
in  spite  of  yourself.  Even  when  he  was  out  at  elbows 
and  at  his  wits'  end  for  money  he  kept  up  a  bold  face. 
Little  Chandler  remembered  (and  the  remembrance 
brought  a  slight  flush  of  pride  to  his  cheek)  one  of 
Ignatius  Gallaher' s  sayings  when  he  was  in  a  tight 
corner : 

'Half  time,  now,  boys,'  he  used  to  say  light- 
heartedly.     '  Where's  my  considering  cap  ?  ' 

That  was  Ignatius  Gallaher  all  out ;  and,  damn  it, 
you  couldn't  but  admire  him  for  it. 

Little  Chandler  quickened  his  pace.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  felt  himself  superior  to  the  people 
he  passed.  For  the  first  time  his  soul  revolted 
against  the  dull  inelegance  of  Capel  Street.  There 
was  no  doubt  about  it :  if  you  wanted  to  succeed  you 
had  to  go  away.  You  could  do  nothing  in  Dublin. 
As  he  crossed  Grattan  Bridge  he  looked  down  the 
river  towards  the  lower  quays  and  pitied  the  poor 
stunted  houses.  They  seemed  to  him  a  band  of 
tramps,  huddled  together  along  the  river-banks,  their 
old  coats  covered  with  dust  and  soot,  stupefied  by 
the  panorama  of  sunset  and  waiting  for  the  first  chill 


88  DUBLINERS 

of  night  to  bid  them  arise,  shake  themselves  and 
begone.  He  wondered  whether  he  could  write  a 
poem  to  express  his  idea.  Perhaps  Gallaher  might 
be  able  to  get  it  into  some  London  paper  for  him. 
Could  he  write  something  original  ?  He  was  not 
sure  what  idea  he  wished  to  express  but  the  thought 
that  a  poetic  moment  had  touched  him  took  life  within 
him  like  an  infant  hope.  He  stepped  onward  bravely. 
Every  step  brought  him  nearer  to  London,  farther 
from  his  own  sober  inartistic  life.  A  light  began  to 
tremble  on  the  horizon  of  his  mind.  He  was  not  so 
old — thirty-two.  His  temperament  might  be  said 
to  be  just  at  the  point  of  maturity.  There  were  so 
many  different  moods  and  impressions  that  he  wished 
to  express  in  verse.  He  felt  them  within  him.  He 
tried  to  weigh  his  soul  to  see  if  it  was  a  poet's  soul. 
Melancholy  was  the  dominant  note  of  his  tempera- 
ment, he  thought,  but  it  was  a  melancholy  tempered 
by  recurrences  of  faith  and  resignation  and  simple 
joy.  If  he  could  give  expression  to  it  in  a  book  of 
poems  perhaps  men  would  listen.  He  would  never 
be  popular  :  he  saw  that.  He  could  not  sway  the 
crowd  but  he  might  appeal  to  a  little  circle  of  kindred 
minds.  The  English  critics,  perhaps,  would  recognise 
him  as  one  of  the  Celtic  school  by  reason  of  the 
melancholy  tone  of  his  poems ;  besides  that,  he 
would  put  in  allusions.  He  began  to  invent  sentences 
and  phrases  from  the  notice  which  his  book  would  get. 
'  Mr  Chandler  has  the  gift  of  easy  and  graceful  verse. ' .  .  . 
{A  wistful  sadness  pervades  these  poems.9  .  .  .  'The 
Celtic  note. '    It  was  a  pity  his  name  was  not  more 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  89 

Irish-looking.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  insert 
his  mother's  name  before  the  surname:  Thomas 
Malone  Chandler,  or  better  still :  T.  Malone  Chandler. 
He  would  speak  to  Gallaher  about  it. 

He  pursued  his  revery  so  ardently  that  he  passed 
his  street  and  had  to  turn  back.  As  he  came  near 
Corless's  his  former  agitation  began  to  overmaster 
him  and  he  halted  before  the  door  in  indecision. 
Finally  he  opened  the  door  and  entered. 

The  light  and  noise  of  the  bar  held  him  at  the 
doorways  for  a  few  moments.  He  looked  about  him, 
but  his  sight  was  confused  by  the  shining  of  many 
red  and  green  wine-glasses.  The  bar  seemed  to  him 
to  be  full  of  people  and  he  felt  that  the  people  were 
observing  him  curiously.  He  glanced  quickly  to 
right  and  left  (frowning  slightly  to  make  his  errand 
appear  serious),  but  when  his  sight  cleared  a  little  he 
saw  that  nobody  had  turned  to  look  at  him  :  and 
there,  sure  enough,  was  Ignatius  Gallaher  leaning 
with  his  back  against  the  counter  and  his  feet  planted 
far  apart. 

1  Hallo,  Tommy,  old  hero,  here  you  are  !  What  is 
it  to  be  ?  What  will  you  have  ?  I'm  taking  whisky  : 
better  stuff  than  we  get  across  the  water.  Soda  ? 
Lithia  ?  No  mineral  ?  I'm  the  same.  Spoils  the 
flavour.  .  .  .  Here,  garqon,  bring  us  two  halves  of 
malt  whisky,  like  a  good  fellow.  .  .  .  Well,  and  how 
have  you  been  pulling  along  since  I  saw  you  last  ? 
Dear  God,  how  old  we're  getting  !  Do  you  see  any 
signs  of  aging  in  me — eh,  what  ?  A  little  grey  and 
thin  on  the  top — what  ?  ' 


90  DUBLINERS 

Ignatius  Gallaher  took  off  his  hat  and  displayed 
a  large  closely  cropped  head.  His  face  was  heavy, 
pale  and  clean-shaven.  His  eyes,  which  were  of 
bluish  slate-colour,  relieved  his  unhealthy  pallor  and 
shone  out  plainly  above  the  vivid  orange  tie  he  wore. 
Between  these  rival  features  the  lips  appeared  very 
long  and  shapeless  and  colourless.  He  bent  his  head 
and  felt  with  two  sympathetic  fingers  the  thin  hair 
at  the  crown.  Little  Chandler  shook  his  head  as 
a  denial.     Ignatius  Gallaher  put  on  his  hat  again. 

4  It  pulls  you  down,'  he  said,  '  Press  life.  Always 
hurry  and  scurry,  looking  for  copy  and  sometimes 
not  finding  it :  and  then,  always  to  have  something 
new  in  your  stuff.  Damn  proofs  and  printers,  I  say, 
for  a  few  days.  I'm  deuced  glad,  I  can  tell  you,  to 
get  back  to  the  old  country.  Does  a  fellow  good, 
a  bit  of  a  holiday.  I  feel  a  ton  better  since  I  landed 
again  in  dear  dirty  Dublin.  .  .  .  Here  you  are, 
Tommy.     Water  ?     Say  when.' 

Little  Chandler  allowed  his  whisky  to  be  very 
much  diluted. 

"  You  don't  know  what's  good  for  you,  my  boy,' 
said  Ignatius  Gallaher.     '  I  drink  mine  neat.' 

4 1  drink  very  little  as  a  rule,'  said  Little  Chandler 
modestly.  '  An  odd  half -one  or  so  when  I  meet  any 
of  the  old  crowd  :  that's  all' 

4  Ah,  well,'  said  Ignatius  Gallaher,  cheerfully, 
4  here's  to  us  and  to  old  times  and  old  acquaint- 
ance.' 

They  clinked  glasses  and  drank  the  toast. 

4 1  met  some  of  the  old  gang  to-day,'  said  Ignatius 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  91 

Gallaher.  *  O'Hara  seems  to  be  in  a  bad  way. 
What's  he  doing  ?  ' 

4  Nothing,'  said  Little  Chandler.  '  He's  gone  to 
the  dogs.' 

1  But  Hogan  has  a  good  sit,  hasn't  he  ?  5 

4  Yes  ;  he's  in  the  Land  Commission.' 

4 1  met  him  one  night  in  London  and  he  seemed 
to  be  very  flush.  .  .  .  Poor  O'Hara  !  Boose,  I 
suppose  ?  ' 

*  Other  things,  too,'  said  Little  Chandler  shortly. 

Ignatius  Gallaher  laughed. 

4  Tommy,'  he  said,  '  I  see  you  haven't  changed  an 
atom.  You're  the  very  same  serious  person  that 
used  to  lecture  me  on  Sunday  mornings  when  I  had 
a  sore  head  and  a  fur  on  my  tongue.  You'd  want 
to  knock  about  a  bit  in  the  world.  Have  you  never 
been  anywhere,  even  for  a  trip  ?  ' 

4  I've  been  to  the  Isle  of  Man,'  said  Little  Chandler. 

Ignatius  Gallaher  laughed. 

4  The  Isle  of  Man ! '  he  said.  4  Go  to  London 
or  Paris  :  Paris,  for  choice.    That'd  do  you  good.' 

4  Have  you  seen  Paris  ?  ' 

4 1  should  think  I  have !  I've  knocked  about 
there  a  little.' 

4  And  is  it  really  so  beautiful  as  they  say  ? '  asked 
Little  Chandler. 

He  sipped  a  little  of  his  drink  while  Ignatius 
Gallaher  finished  his  boldly. 

4  Beautiful  ?  '  said  Ignatius  Gallaher,  pausing  on 
the  word  and  on  the  flavour  of  his  drink.  4  It's  not 
so  beautiful,  you  know.     Of  course,  it  is  beautiful 


92  DUBLINERS 

But  it's  the  life  of  Paris ;  that's  the  thing.  Ah, 
there's  no  city  like  Paris  for  gaiety,  movement, 
excitement.  ..." 

Little  Chandler  finished  his  whisky  and,  after  some 
trouble,  succeeded  in  catching  the  barman's  eye. 
He  ordered  the  same  again. 

1  I've  been  to  the  Moulin  Rouge,'  Ignatius 
Gallaher  continued  when  the  barman  had  removed 
their  glasses,  c  and  I've  been  to  all  the  Bohemian 
cafes.  Hot  stuff !  Not  for  a  pious  chap  like  you, 
Tommy.' 

Little  Chandler  said  nothing  until  the  barman 
returned  with  the  two  glasses  :  then  he  touched  his 
friend's  glass  lightly  and  reciprocated  the  former 
toast.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  somewhat  disillu- 
sioned. Gallaher's  accent  and  way  of  expressing 
himself  did  not  please  him.  There  was  something 
vulgar  in  his  friend  which  he  had  not  observed  before. 
But  perhaps  it  was  only  the  result  of  living  in  London 
amid  the  bustle  and  competition  of  the  Press.  The 
old  personal  charm  was  still  there  under  this  new 
gaudy  manner.  And,  after  all,  Gallaher  had  lived, 
he  had  seen  the  world.  Little  Chandler  looked  at  his 
friend  enviously. 

4  Everything  in  Paris  is  gay,'  said  Ignatius 
Gallaher.  4  They  believe  in  enjoying  life — and  don't 
you  think  they're  right  ?  If  you  want  to  enjoy 
yourself  properly  you  must  go  to  Paris.  And,  mind 
you,  they've  a  great  feeling  for  the  Irish  there. 
When  they  heard  I  was  from  Ireland  they  were 
ready  to  eat  me,  man.' 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  93 

Little  Chandler  took  four  or  five  sips  from  his  glass. 

1  Tell  me,'  he  said,  '  is  it  true  that  Paris  is  so  .  .  . 
immoral  as  they  say  ?  ' 

Ignatius  Gallaher  made  a  catholic  gesture  with  his 
right  arm. 

4  Every  place  is  immoral,'  he  said.  4  Of  course 
you  do  find  spicy  bits  in  Paris.  Go  to  one  of  the 
students'  balls,  for  instance.  That's  lively,  if  you 
like,  when  the  cocottes  begin  to  let  themselves  loose. 
You  know  what  they  are,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

4  I've  heard  of  them,'  said  Little  Chandler. 

Ignatius  Gallaher  drank  off  his  whisky  and  shook 
his  head. 

4  Ah,'  he  said,  4  you  may  say  what  you  like. 
There's  no  woman  like  the  Parisienne — for  style,  for 

go-' 

4  Then  it  is  an  immoral  city,'  said  Little  Chandler, 
with  timid  insistence — 4 1  mean,  compared  with 
London  or  Dublin  ?  ' 

4  London  ! '  said  Ignatius  Gallaher.  4  It's  six  of 
one  and  half-a-dozen  of  the  other.  You  ask  Hogan, 
my  boy.  I  showed  him  a  bit  about  London  when 
he  was  over  there.  He'd  open  your  eye.  ...  I  say, 
Tommy,  don't  make  punch  of  that  whisky  :  liquor 
up.' 

4  No,  really.  .  .  .' 

4  O,  come  on,  another  one  won't  do  you  any  harm. 
What  is  it  ?    The  same  again,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

4  Well  .  .  .  all  right.' 

4  Franqois,  the  same  again.  .  .  .  Will  you  smoke, 
Tommy  ?  ' 


94  DUBLINERS 

Ignatius  Gallaher  produced  his  cigar-case.  The 
two  friends  lit  their  cigars  and  puffed  at  them  in 
silence  until  their  drinks  were  served. 

1  I'll  tell  you  my  opinion,'  said  Ignatius  Gallaher, 
emerging  after  some  time  from  the  clouds  of  smoke 
in  which  he  had  taken  refuge,  4  it's  a  rum  world. 
Talk  of  immorality  !  I've  heard  of  cases — what 
am  I  saying  ? — I've  known  them  :  cases  of  .  .  . 
immorality.  .  .  .' 

Ignatius  Gallaher  puffed  thoughtfully  at  his  cigar 
and  then,  in  a  calm  historian's  tone,  he  proceeded  to 
sketch  for  his  friend  some  pictures  of  the  corruption 
which  was  rife  abroad.  He  summarised  the  vices 
of  many  capitals  and  seemed  inclined  to  award  the 
palm  to  Berlin.  Some  things  he  could  not  vouch 
for  (his  friends  had  told  him),  but  of  others  he  had 
had  personal  experience.  He  spared  neither  rank 
nor  caste.  He  revealed  many  of  the  secrets  of 
religious  houses  on  the  Continent  and  described  some 
of  the  practices  which  were  fashionable  in  high  society 
and  ended  by  telling,  with  details,  a  story  about  an 
English  duchess — a  story  which  he  knew  to  be  true. 
Little  Chandler  was  astonished. 

4  Ah,  well,'  said  Ignatius  Gallaher,  '  here  we  are  in 
old  jog-along  Dublin  where  nothing  is  known  of  such 
things.' 

4  How  dull  you  must  find  it,'  said  Little  Chandler, 
1  after  all  the  other  places  you've  seen  ! ' 

'  Well,'  said  Ignatius  Gallaher,  '  it's  a  relaxation 
to  come  over  here,  you  know.  And,  after  all,  it's 
the  old  country,  as  they  say,  isn't  it  ?    You  can't 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  95 

help  having  a  certain  feeling  for  it.  That's  human 
nature.  .  .  .  But  tell  me  something  about  yourself. 
Hogan  told  me  you  had  .  .  .  tasted  the  joys  of 
connubial  bliss.     Two  years  ago,  wasn't  it  ?  ' 

Little  Chandler  blushed  and  smiled. 

4  Yes,'  he  said.  4  I  was  married  last  May  twelve 
months.' 

4 1  hope  it's  not  too  late  in  the  day  to  offer  my  best 
wishes,'  said  Ignatius  Gallaher.  '  I  didn't  know 
your  address  or  I'd  have  done  so  at  the  time.' 

He  extended  his  hand,  which  Little  Chandler  took. 

*  Well,  Tommy,'  he  said,  4 1  wish  you  and  yours 
every  joy  in  life,  old  chap,  and  tons  of  money,  and 
may  you  never  die  till  I  shoot  you.  And  that's  the 
wish  of  a  sincere  friend,  an  old  friend.  You  know 
that  ? ' 

4 1  know  that,'  said  Little  Chandler. 

4  Any  youngsters  ?  '  said  Ignatius  Gallaher. 

Little  Chandler  blushed  again. 

4  We  have  one  child,'  he  said. 

4  Son  or  daughter  ?  ' 

4  A  little  boy.' 

Ignatius  Gallaher  slapped  his  friend  sonorously 
on  the  back. 

4  Bravo,'  he  said,  4 1  wouldn't  doubt  you,  Tommy.' 

Little  Chandler  smiled,  looked  confusedly  at  his 
glass  and  bit  his  lower  lip  with  three  childishly  white 
front  teeth. 

4 1  hope  you'll  spend  an  evening  with  us,'  he  said, 
4  before  you  go  back.  My  wife  will  be  delighted  to 
meet  you.     We  can  have  a  little  music  and ' 


96  DUBLINERS 

'  Thanks  awfully,  old  chap,'  said  Ignatius  Gallaher, 
4  I'm  sorry  we  didn't  meet  earlier.  But  I  must  leave 
to-morrow  night.' 

'  To-night,  perhaps  .  .  .  ?  ' 

4  I'm  awfully  sorry,  old  man.  You  see  I'm  over 
here  with  another  fellow,  clever  young  chap  he  is  too, 
and  we  arranged  to  go  to  a  little  card-party.  Only 
for  that  ..." 

4  O,  in  that  case.  .  .  .' 

4  But  who  knows  ? '  said  Ignatius  Gallaher 
considerately.  4  Next  year  I  may  take  a  little  skip 
over  here  now  that  I've  broken  the  ice.  It's  only 
a  pleasure  deferred.' 

4  Very  well,'  said  Little  Chandler,  4  the  next  time 
you  come  we  must  have  an  evening  together.  That's 
agreed  now,  isn't  it  ?  ' 

4  Yes,  that's  agreed,'  said  Ignatius  Gallaher.  Next 
year  if  I  come,  parole  d'  honneur.' 

4  And  to  clinch  the  bargain,'  said  Little  Chandler, 
4  we'll  just  have  one  more  now.' 

Ignatius  Gallaher  took  out  a  large  gold  watch  and 
looked  at  it. 

4  Is  it  to  be  the  last  ?  '  he  said.  4  Because  you 
know,  I  have  an  a.p.' 

4  O,  yes,  positively,'  said  Little  Chandler. 

4  Very  well,  then,'  said  Ignatius  Gallaher,  4  let  us 
have  another  one  as  a  deoc  an  doruis — that's  good 
vernacular  for  a  small  whisky,  I  believe.' 

Little  Chandler  ordered  the  drinks.  The  blush 
which  had  risen  to  his  face  a  few  moments  before  was 
establishing  itself.     A  trifle  made  him  blush  at  any 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  97 

time  :  and  now  he  felt  warm  and  excited.  Three 
small  whiskies  had  gone  to  his  head  and  Gallaher's 
strong  cigar  had  confused  his  mind,  for  he  was  a 
delicate  and  abstinent  person.  The  adventure  of 
meeting  Gallaher  after  eight  years,  of  finding  himself 
with  Gallaher  in  Corless's  surrounded  by  lights  and 
noise,  of  listening  to  Gallaher's  stories  and  of  sharing 
for  a  brief  space  Gallaher's  vagrant  and  triumphant 
life,  upset  the  equipoise  of  his  sensitive  nature.  He 
felt  acutely  the  contrast  between  his  own  life  a  nd  his 
friend's,  and  it  seemed  to  him  unjust.  Gallaher  was 
his  inferior  in  birth  and  education.  He  was  sure 
that  he  could  do  something  better  than  his  friend 
had  ever  done,  or  could  ever  do,  something  higher 
than  mere  tawdry  journalism  if  he  only  got  the 
chance.  What  was  it  that  stood  in  his  way  ? 
His  unfortunate  timidity  !  He  wished  to  vindicate 
himself  in  some  way,  to  assert  his  manhood.  He 
saw  behind  Gallaher's  refusal  of  his  invitation. 
Gallaher  was  only  patronising  him  by  his  friendli- 
ness just  as  he  was  patronising  Ireland  by  his 
visit. 

The  barman  brought  their  drinks.  Little  Chandler 
pushed  one  glass  towards  his  friend  and  took  up  the 
other  boldly. 

4  Who  knows  ?  '  he  said,  as  they  lifted  their  glasses. 
4  When  you  come  next  year  I  may  have  the  pleasure 
of  wishing  long  life  and  happiness  to  Mr  and  Mrs 
Ignatius  Gallaher.' 

Ignatius  Gallaher  in  the  act  of  drinking  closed  one 
eye  expressively  over  the  rim  of  his  glass.    When  he 

G 


98  DUBLINERS 

had  drunk  he  smacked  his  lips  decisively,  set  down 
his  glass  and  said : 

4  No  blooming  fear  of  that,  my  boy.  I'm  going 
to  have  my  fling  first  and  see  a  bit  of  life  and 
the  world  before  I  put  my  head  in  the  sack — if  I 
ever  do.' 

4  Some  day  you  will,'  said  Little  Chandler  calmly. 

Ignatius  Gallaher  turned  his  orange  tie  and  slate- 
blue  eyes  full  upon  his  friend. 

4  You  think  so  ?  '  he  said. 

4  You'll  put  your  head  in  the  sack,'  repeated  Little 
Chandler  stoutly,  4  like  everyone  else  if  you  can  find 
the  girl.' 

He  had  slightly  emphasised  his  tone  and  he  was 
aware  that  he  had  betrayed  himself ;  but,  though  the 
colour  had  heightened  in  his  cheek,  he  did  not  flinch 
from  his  friend's  gaze.  Ignatius  Gallaher  watched 
him  for  a  few  moments  and  then  said: 

4  If  ever  it  occurs,  you  may  bet  your  bottom 
dollar  there'll  be  no  mooning  and  spooning  about  it. 
I  mean  to  marry  money.  She'll  have  a  good  fat 
account  at  the  bank  or  she  won't  do  for  me.' 

Little  Chandler  shook  his  head. 

4  Why,  man  alive,'  said  Ignatius  Gallaher,  ve- 
hemently, 4  do  you  know  what  it  is  ?  I've  only  to 
say  the  word  and  to-morrow  I  can  have  the  woman 
and  the  cash.  You  don't  believe  it  ?  Well,  I  know  it. 
There  are  hundreds — what  am  I  saying  ? — thousands 
of  rich  Germans  and  Jews,  rotten  with  money,  that'd 
only  be  too  glad.  .  .  .  You  wait  a  while,  my  boy. 
See  if  I  don't  play  my  cards  properly.    When  I  go 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  99 

about  a  thing  I  mean  business,  I  tell  you.  You  just 
wait.' 

He  tossed  his  glass  to  his  mouth,  finished  his  drink 
and  laughed  loudly.  Then  he  looked  thoughtfully 
before  him  and  said  in  a  calmer  tone  : 

4  But  I'm  in  no  hurry.  They  can  wait.  I  don't 
fancy  tying  myself  up  to  one  woman,  you  know.' 

He  imitated  with  his  mouth  the  act  of  tasting 
and  made  a  wry  face. 

1  Must  get  a  bit  stale,  I  should  think,'  he  said. 

Little  Chandler  sat  in  the  room  off  the  hall,  holding 
a  child  in  his  arms.  To  save  money  they  kept  no 
servant  but  Annie's  young  sister  Monica  came  for 
an  hour  or  so  in  the  morning  and  an  hour  or  so  in  the 
evening  to  help.  But  Monica  had  gone  home  long 
ago.  It  was  a  quarter  to  nine.  Little  Chandler  had 
come  home  late  for  tea  and,  moreover,  he  had  for- 
gotten to  bring  Annie  home  the  parcel  of  coffee  from 
Bewley's.  Of  course  she  was  in  a  bad  humour  and 
gave  him  short  answers.  She  said  she  would  do 
without  any  tea  but  when  it  came  near  the  time  at 
which  the  shop  at  the  corner  closed  she  decided  to  go 
out  herself  for  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  and  two 
pounds  of  sugar.  She  put  the  sleeping  child  deftly 
in  his  arms  and  said : 

1  Here.    Don't  waken  him.' 

A  little  lamp  with  a  white  china  shade  stood  upon 
the  table  and  its  light  fell  over  a  photograph  which 
was  enclosed  in  a  frame  of  crumpled  horn.  It  was 
Annie's  photograph.     Little  Chandler  looked  at  it, 


100  DUBLINERS 

pausing  at  the  thin  tight  lips.  She  wore  the  pale 
blue  summer  blouse  which  he  had  brought  her  home 
as  a  present  one  Saturday.  It  had  cost  him  ten  and 
elevenpence ;  but  what  an  agony  of  nervousness  it 
had  cost  him  !  How  he  had  suffered  that  day, 
waiting  at  the  shop  door  until  the  shop  was  empty, 
standing  at  the  counter  and  trying  to  appear  at  his 
ease  while  the  girl  piled  ladies'  blouses  before  him, 
paying  at  the  desk  and  forgetting  to  take  up  the  odd 
penny  of  his  change,  being  called  back  by  the  cashier, 
and,  finally,  striving  to  hide  his  blushes  as  he  left  the 
shop  by  examining  the  parcel  to  see  if  it  was  securely 
tied.  When  he  brought  the  blouse  home  Annie  kissed 
him  and  said  it  was  very  pretty  and  stylish  ;  but 
when  she  heard  the  price  she  threw  the  blouse  on  the 
table  and  said  it  was  a  regular  swindle  to  charge  ten 
and  elevenpence  for  it.  At  first  she  wanted  to  take 
it  back  but  when  she  tried  it  on  she  was  delighted 
with  it,  especially  with  the  make  of  the  sleeves,  and 
kissed  him  and  said  he  was  very  good  to  think  of 
her. 

Hm !  .  .  . 

He  looked  coldly  into  the  eyes  of  the  photograph 
and  they  answered  coldly.  Certainly  they  were 
pretty  and  the  face  itself  was  pretty.  But  he  found 
something  mean  in  it.  Why  was  it  so  unconscious 
and  lady -like  ?  The  composure  of  the  eyes  irritated 
him.  They  repelled  him  and  defied  him  :  there  was 
no  passion  in  them,  no  rapture.  He  thought  of  what 
Gallaher  had  said  about  rich  Jewesses.  Those  dark 
Oriental  eyes,  he  thought,  how  full  they  are  of  passion, 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  101 

of  voluptuous  longing  !  .  .  .  Why  had  he  married 
the  eyes  in  the  photograph  ? 

He  caught  himself  up  at  the  question  and  glanced 
nervously  round  the  room.  He  found  something 
mean  in  the  pretty  furniture  which  he  had  bought 
for  his  house  on  the  hire  system.  Annie  had  chosen 
it  herself  and  it  reminded  him  of  her.  It  too  was 
prim  and  pretty.  A  dull  resentment  against  his  life 
awoke  within  him.  Could  he  not  escape  from  his 
little  house  ?  Was  it  too  late  for  him  to  try  to  live 
bravely  like  Gallaher  ?  Could  he  go  to  London  ? 
There  was  the  furniture  still  to  be  paid  for.  If  he 
could  only  write  a  book  and  get  it  published,  that 
might  open  the  way  for  him. 

A  volume  of  Byron's  poems  lay  before  him  on  the 
table.  He  opened  it  cautiously  with  his  left  hand 
lest  he  should  waken  the  child  and  began  to  read  the 
first  poem  in  the  book  : 

'  Hushed  are  the  winds  and  still  the  evening  gloom, 

Not  ien  a  Zephyr  wanders  through  the  grove, 
Whilst  I  return  to  view  my  Margarefs  tomb 
And  scatter  flowers  on  the  dust  I  love} 

He  paused.  He  felt  the  rhythm  of  the  verse  about 
him  in  the  room.  How  melancholy  it  was  !  Could 
he,  too,  write  like  that,  express  the  melancholy  of 
his  soul  in  verse  ?  There  were  so  many  things  he 
wanted  to  describe :  his  sensation  of  a  few  hours 
before  on  Grattan  Bridge,  for  example.  If  he  could 
get  back  again  into  that  mood.  .  .  . 

The  child  awoke  and  began  to  cry.    He  turned 


102  DUBLINERS 

from  the  page  and  tried  to  hush  it :  but  it  would  not 
be  hushed.  He  began  to  rock  it  to  and  fro  in  his 
arms  but  its  wailing  cry  grew  keener.  He  rocked  it 
faster  while  his  eyes  began  to  read  the  second  stanza  : 

'  Within  this  narrow  cell  reclines  her  clay, 
That  clay  where  once  .  .  r 

It  was  useless.  He  couldn't  read.  He  couldn't 
do  anything.  The  wailing  of  the  child  pierced  the 
drum  of  his  ear.  It  was  useless,  useless  !  He  was  a 
prisoner  for  life.  His  arms  trembled  with  anger  and 
suddenly  bending  to  the  child's  face  he  shouted  : 

'  Stop  ! ' 

The  child  stopped  for  an  instant,  had  a  spasm 
of  fright  and  began  to  scream.  He  jumped  up  from 
his  chair  and  walked  hastily  up  and  down  the  room 
with  the  child  in  his  arms.  It  began  to  sob  piteously, 
losing  its  breath  for  four  or  five  seconds,  and  then 
bursting  out  anew.  The  thin  walls  of  the  room  echoed 
the  sound.  He  tried  to  soothe  it  but  it  sobbed  more 
convulsively.  He  looked  at  the  contracted  and 
quivering  face  of  the  child  and  began  to  be  alarmed. 
He  counted  seven  sobs  without  a  break  between  them 
and  caught  the  child  to  his  breast  in  fright.  If  it 
died !  .  .  . 

The  door  was  burst  open  and  a  young  woman  ran 
in,  panting. 

4  What  is  it?    What  is  it?'  she  cried. 

The  child,  hearing  its  mother's  voice,  broke  out 
into  a  paroxysm  of  sobbing. 


A  LITTLE  CLOUD  108 

'It's  nothing,  Annie  .  .  .  it's  nothing.  ...  He 
began  to  cry  .  .  .' 

She  flung  her  parcels  on  the  floor  and  snatched  the 
child  from  him. 

1  What  have  you  done  to  him  ?  '  she  cried,  glaring 
into  his  face. 

Little  Chandler  sustained  for  one  moment  the  gaze 
of  her  eyes  and  his  heart  closed  together  as  he  met 
the  hatred  in  them.    He  began  to  stammer  : 

1  It's  nothing.  .  .  .  He  ...  he  began  to  cry.  .  .  . 
I  couldn't  ...  I  didn't  do  anything.  .  .  .  What  ?  ' 

Giving  no  heed  to  him  she  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  room,  clasping  the  child  tightly  in  her 
arms  and  murmuring : 

4  My  little  man !  My  little  mannie !  Was  'ou 
frightened,  love  ?  .  .  .  There  now,  love !  There 
now  !  .  .  .  Lambabaun !  Mamma's  little  lamb  of 
the  world  !  .  .  .  There  now  ! ' 

Little  Chandler  felt  his  cheeks  suffused  with  shame 
and  he  stood  back  out  of  the  lamplight.  He  listened 
while  the" paroxysm  of  the  child's  sobbing  grew  less 
and  less  ;  and  tears  of  remorse  started  to  his  eyes. 


COUNTERPARTS 

The  bell  rang  furiously  and,  when  Miss  Parker  went 
to  the  tube,  a  furious  voice  called  out  in  a  piercing 
North  of  Ireland  accent : 

4  Send  Farrington  here  ! ' 

Miss  Parker  returned  to  her  machine,  saying  to  a 
man  who  was  writing  at  a  desk  : 

4  Mr  Alleyne  wants  you  upstairs.' 

The  man  muttered  'Blast  him  ! '  under  his  breath 
and  pushed  back  his  chair  to  stand  up.  When  he 
stood  up  he  was  tall  and  of  great  bulk.  He  had 
a  hanging  face,  dark  wine-coloured,  with  fair  eye- 
brows and  moustache :  his  eyes  bulged  forward 
slightly  and  the  whites  of  them  were  dirty.  He 
lifted  up  the  counter  and,  passing  by  the  clients, 
went  out  of  the  office  with  a  heavy  step. 

He  went  heavily  upstairs  until  he  came  to  the 
second  landing,  where  a  door  bore  a  brass  plate  with 
the  inscription  Mr  Alleyne.  Here  he  halted,  puffing 
with  labour  and  vexation,  and  knocked.  The  shrill 
voice  cried : 

4  Come  in  ! ' 

The  man  entered  Mr  Alleyne's  room.  Simultane- 
ously Mr  Alleyne,  a  little  man  wearing  gold-rimmed 
glasses  on  a  clean-shaven  face,  shot  his  head  up  over 
a  pile  of  documents.    The  head  itself  was  so  pink  and 

104 


COUNTERPARTS  105 

hairless  it  seemed  like  a  large  egg  reposing  on  the 
papers.    Mr  Alleyne  did  not  lose  a  moment : 

4  Farrington  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ? 
Why  have  I  always  to  complain  of  you  ?  May  I 
ask  you  why  you  haven't  made  a  copy  of  that  contract 
between  Bodley  and  Kirwan  ?  I  told  you  it  must 
be  ready  by  four  o'clock.' 

4  But  Mr  Shelley  said,  sir ' 

1  Mr  Shelley  said,  sir.  .  .  .  Kindly  attend  to  what 
I  say  and  not  to  what  Mr  Shelley  says,  sir.  You  have 
always  some  excuse  or  another  for  shirking  work. 
Let  me  tell  you  that  if  the  contract  is  not  copied 
before  this  evening  I'll  lay  the  matter  before  Mr 
Crosbie.  ...  Do  you  hear  me  now  ?  ' 

4  Yes,  sir.' 

4  Do  you  hear  me  now  ?  .  .  .  Ay  and  another  little 
matter  !  I  might  as  well  be  talking  to  the  wall  as 
talking  to  you.  Understand  once  for  all  that  you 
get  a  half  an  hour  for  your  lunch  and  not  an  hour 
and  a  half.  How  many  courses  do  you  want,  I'd 
like  to  know.  ...  Do  you  mind  me,  now  ?  ' 

4  Yes,  sir.' 

Mr  Alleyne  bent  his  head  again  upon  his  pile  of 
papers.  The  man  stared  fixedly  at  the  polished 
skull  which  directed  the  affairs  of  Crosbie  &  Alleyne, 
gauging  its  fragility.  A  spasm  of  rage  gripped  his 
throat  for  a  few  moments  and  then  passed,  leaving 
after  it  a  sharp  sensation  of  thirst.  The  man  recog- 
nised the  sensation  and  felt  that  he  must  have  a  good 
night's  drinking.  The  middle  of  the  month  was 
passed  and,  if  he  could  get  the  copy  done  in  time, 


106  DUBLINERS 

Mr  Alleyne  might  give  him  an  order  on  the  cashier. 
He  stood  still,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  head  upon  the 
pile  of  papers.  Suddenly  Mr  Alleyne  began  to  upset 
all  the  papers,  searching  for  something.  Then,  as  if 
he  had  been  unaware  of  the  man's  presence  till  that 
moment,  he  shot  up  his  head  again,  saying  : 

4  Eh  ?  Are  you  going  to  stand  there  all  day  ? 
Upon  my  word,  Farrington,  you  take  things  easy  I ' 

4  I  was  waiting  to  see  .  .  .' 

4  Very  good,  you  needn't  wait  to  see.  Go  down- 
stairs and  do  your  work.' 

The  man  walked  heavily  towards  the  door  and,  as 
he  went  out  of  the  room,  he  heard  Mr  Alleyne  cry 
after  him  that  if  the  contract  was  not  copied  by  even- 
ing Mr  Crosbie  would  hear  of  the  matter. 

He  returned  to  his  desk  in  the  lower  office  and 
counted  the  sheets  which  remained  to  be  copied. 
He  took  up  his  pen  and  dipped  it  in  the  ink  but  he 
continued  to  stare  stupidly  at  the  last  words  he  had 
written :  In  no  case  shall  the  said  Bernard  Bodley 
be  .  .  .  The  evening  was  falling  and  in  a  few  minutes 
they  would  be  lighting  the  gas  :  then  he  could  write. 
He  felt  that  he  must  slake  the  thirst  in  his  throat. 
He  stood  up  from  his  desk  and,  lifting  the  counter 
as  before,  passed  out  of  the  office.  As  he  was  passing 
out  the  chief  clerk  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

4  It's  all  right,  Mr  Shelley,'  said  the  man,  pointing 
with  his  finger  to  indicate  the  objective  of  his 
journey. 

The  chief  clerk  glanced  at  the  hat- rack  but,  seeing 
the  row  complete,  offered  no  remark.    As  soon  as  he 


COUNTERPARTS  107 

was  on  the  landing  the  man  pulled  a  shepherd's 
plaid  cap  out  of  his  pocket,  put  it  on  his  head  and 
ran  quickly  down  the  rickety  stairs.  From  the  street 
door  he  walked  on  furtively  on  the  inner  side  of  the 
path  towards  the  corner  and  all  at  once  dived  into  a 
doorway.  He  was  now  safe  in  the  dark  snug  of 
O'NeilPs  shop,  and,  filling  up  the  little  window 
that  looked  into  the  bar  with  his  inflamed  face, 
the  colour  of  dark  wine  or  dark  meat,  he  called 
out: 

4  Here,  Pat,  give  us  a  g.p.,  like  a  good  fellow.' 

The  curate  brought  him  a  glass  of  plain  porter. 
The  man  drank  it  at  a  gulp  and  asked  for  a  caraway 
seed.  He  put  his  penny  on  the  counter  and,  leaving 
the  curate  to  grope  for  it  in  the  gloom,  retreated  out 
of  the  snug  as  furtively  as  he  had  entered  it. 

Darkness,  accompanied  by  a  thick  fog,  was  gaining 
upon  the  dusk  of  February  and  the  lamps  in  Eustace 
Street  had  been  lit.  The  man  went  up  by  the  houses 
until  he  reached  the  door  of  the  office,  wondering 
whether  he  could  finish  his  copy  in  time.  On  the  stairs 
a  moist  pungent  odour  of  perfumes  saluted  his  nose : 
evidently  Miss  Delacour  had  come  while  he  was  out 
in  O'Neill's.  He  crammed  his  cap  back  again  into 
his  pocket  and  re-entered  the  office,  assuming  an  air 
of  absent-mindedness. 

4  Mr  Alleyne  has  been  calling  for  you,'  said  the 
chief  clerk  severely.     4  Where  were  you  ?  ' 

The  man  glanced  at  the  two  clients  who  were 
standing  at  the  counter  as  if  to  intimate  that  their 
presence  prevented  him  from  answering.    As  the 


108  DUBLINERS 

clients  were  both  male  the  chief  clerk  allowed  himself 
a  laugh. 

'  I  know  that  game,'  he  said.  '  Five  times  in  one 
day  is  a  little  bit.  .  .  .  Well,  you  better  look  sharp 
and  get  a  copy  of  our  correspondence  in  the  Delacour 
case  for  Mr  Alleyne.' 

This  address  in  the  presence  of  the  public,  his  run 
upstairs  and  the  porter  he  had  gulped  down  so  hastily 
confused  the  man  and,  as  he  sat  down  at  his  desk  to 
get  what  was  required,  he  realised  how  hopeless  was 
the  task  of  finishing  his  copy  of  the  contract  before 
half  past  five.  The  dark  damp  night  was  coming 
and  he  longed  to  spend  it  in  the  bars,  drinking  with 
his  friends  amid  the  glare  of  gas  and  the  clatter  of 
glasses.  He  got  out  the  Delacour  correspondence  and 
passed  out  of  the  office.  He  hoped  Mr  Alleyne  would 
not  discover  that  the  last  two  letters  were  missing. 

The  moist  pungent  perfume  lay  all  the  way  up  to 
Mr  Alleyne's  room.  Miss  Delacour  was  a  middle-aged 
woman  of  Jewish  appearance.  Mr  Alleyne  was  said 
to  be  sweet  on  her  or  on  her  money.  She  came  to  the 
office  often  and  stayed  a  long  time  when  she  came. 
She  was  sitting  beside  his  desk  now  in  an  aroma  of 
perfumes,  smoothing  the  handle  of  her  umbrella  and 
nodding  the  great  black  feather  in  her  hat.  Mr 
Alleyne  had  swivelled  his  chair  round  to  face  her  and 
thrown  his  right  foot  jauntily  upon  his  left  knee. 
The  man  put  the  correspondence  on  the  desk  and 
bowed  respectfully  but  neither  Mr  Alleyne  nor  Miss 
Delacour  took  any  notice  of  his  bow.  Mr  Alleyne 
tapped  a  finger  on  the  correspondence  and  then 


COUNTERPARTS  109 

flicked  it  towards  him  as  if  to  say  :  *  That's  all 
right :  you  can  go. ' 

The  man  returned  to  the  lower  office  and  sat  down 
again  at  his  desk.  He  stared  intently  at  the  incom- 
plete phrase  :  In  no  case  shall  the  said  Bernard  Bodley 
be  .  .  .  and  thought  how  strange  it  was  that  the 
last  three  words  began  with  the  same  letter.  The 
chief  clerk  began  to  hurry  Miss  Parker,  saying  she 
would  never  have  the  letters  typed  in  time  for  post. 
The  man  listened  to  the  clicking  of  the  machine  for 
a  few  minutes  and  then  set  to  work  to  finish  his  copy. 
But  his  head  was  not  clear  and  his  mind  wandered 
away  to  the  glare  and  rattle  of  the  public-house. 
It  was  a  night  for  hot  punches.  He  struggled  on  with 
his  copy,  but  when  the  clock  struck  five  he  had  still 
fourteen  pages  to  write.  Blast  it !  He  couldn't 
finish  it  in  time.  He  longed  to  execrate  aloud,  to 
bring  his  fist  down  on  something  violently.  He  was 
so  enraged  that  he  wrote  Bernard  Bernard  instead  of 
Bernard  Bodley  and  had  to  begin  again  on  a  clean 
sheet. 

He  felt  strong  enough  to  clear  out  the  whole  office 
single-handed.  His  body  ached  to  do  something, 
to  rush  out  and  revel  in  violence.  All  the  indignities 
of  his  life  enraged  him.  .  .  .  Could  he  ask  the  cashier 
privately  for  an  advance  ?  No,  the  cashier  was  no 
good,  no  damn  good  :  he  wouldn't  give  an  advance. 
. . .  He  knew  where  he  would  meet  the  boys :  Leonard 
and  O'Halloran  and  Nosey  Flynn.  The  barometer 
of  his  emotional  nature  was  set  for  a  spell  of  riot. 

His  imagination  had  so  abstracted  him  that  his 


110  DUBLINERS 

name  was  called  twice  before  he  answered.  Mr 
Alleyne  and  Miss  Delacour  were  standing  outside  the 
counter  and  all  the  clerks  had  turned  round  in 
anticipation  of  something.  The  man  got  up  from 
his  desk.  Mr  Alleyne  began  a  tirade  of  abuse,  saying 
that  two  letters  were  missing.  The  man  answered 
that  he  knew  nothing  about  them,  that  he  had  made 
a  faithful  copy.  The  tirade  continued  :  it  was  so 
bitter  and  violent  that  the  man  could  hardly  restrain 
his  fist  from  descending  upon  the  head  of  the  mani- 
kin before  him : 

4 1  know  nothing  about  any  other  two  letters,'  he 
said  stupidly. 

1  You — know —  nothing.  Of  course  you  know 
nothing,'  said  Mr  Alleyne.  '  Tell  me,'  he  added, 
glancing  first  for  approval  to  the  lady  beside  him, 
4  do  you  take  me  for  a  fool  ?  Do  you  think  me  an 
utter  fool  ?  ' 

The  man  glanced  from  the  lady's  face  to  the  little 
egg-shaped  head  and  back  again  ;  and,  almost  before 
he  was  aware  of  it,  his  tongue  had  found  a  felicitous 
moment : 

c  I  don't  think,  sir,'  he  said,  '  that  that's  a  fair 
question  to  put  to  me.' 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  very  breathing  of  the 
clerks.  Everyone  was  astounded  (the  author  of  the 
witticism  no  less  than  his  neighbours)  and  Miss 
Delacour,  who  was  a  stout  amiable  person,  began  to 
smile  broadly.  Mr  Alleyne  flushed  to  the  hue  of  a 
wild  rose  and  his  mouth  twitched  with  a  dwarf's 
passion.    He  shook  his  fist  in  the  man's  face  till  it 


COUNTERPARTS  111 

seemed  to  vibrate  like  the  knob  of  some  electric 
machine : 

1  You  impertinent  ruffian !  You  impertinent 
ruffian  !  I'll  make  short  work  of  you  !  Wait  till 
you  see !  You'll  apologise  to  me  for  your  imper- 
tinence or  you'll  quit  the  office  instanter  !  You'll 
quit  this,  I'm  telling  you,  or  you'll  apologise  to 
me!' 

He  stood  in  a  doorway  opposite  the  office  watching 
to  see  if  the  cashier  would  come  out  alone.  All  the 
clerks  passed  out  and  finally  the  cashier  came  out 
with  the  chief  clerk.  It  was  no  use  trying  to  say  a 
word  to  him  when  he  was  with  the  chief  clerk.  The 
man  felt  that  his  position  was  bad  enough.  He  had 
been  obliged  to  offer  an  abject  apology  to  Mr  Alley ne 
for  his  impertinence  but  he  knew  what  a  hornet's 
nest  the  office  would  be  for  him.  He  could  remember 
the  way  in  which  Mr  Alley  ne  had  hounded  little 
Peake  out  of  the  office  in  order  to  make  room  for  his 
own  nephew.  He  felt  savage  and  thirsty  and  revenge- 
ful, annoyed  with  himself  and  with  everyone  else. 
Mr  Alleyne  would  never  give  him  an  hour's  rest ; 
his  life  would  be  a  hell  to  him.  He  had  made  a  proper 
fool  of  himself  this  time.  Could  he  not  keep  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek  ?  But  they  had  never  pulled 
together  from  the  first  he  and  Mr  Alleyne,  ever  since 
the  day  Mr  Alleyne  had  overheard  him  mimicking 
his  North  of  Ireland  accent  to  amuse  Higgins  and 
Miss  Parker:  that  had  been  the  beginning  of  it.  He 
might  have  tried  Higgins  for  the  money,  but  sure 


112  DUBLINERS 

Higgins  never  had  anything  for  himself.  A  man 
with  two  establishments  to  keep  up,  of  course  he 
couldn't.  .  .  . 

He  felt  his  great  body  again  aching  for  the  comfort 
of  the  public-house.  The  fog  had  begun  to  chill 
him  and  he  wondered  could  he  touch  Pat  in  O'Neill's. 
He  could  not  touch  him  for  more  than  a  bob — and 
a  bob  was  no  use.  Yet  he  must  get  money  somewhere 
or  other :  he  had  spent  his  last  penny  for  the  g.p. 
and  soon  it  would  be  too  late  for  getting  money  any- 
where. Suddenly,  as  he  was  fingering  his  watch-chain, 
he  thought  of  Terry  Kelly's  pawn-office  in  Fleet 
Street.  That  was  the  dart !  Why  didn't  he  think  of 
it  sooner  ? 

He  went  through  the  narrow  alley  of  Temple  Bar 
quickly,  muttering  to  himself  that  they  could  all  go 
to  hell  because  he  was  going  to  have  a  good  night  of 
it.  The  clerk  in  Terry  Kelly's  said  A  crown  I  but  the 
consignor  held  out  for  six  shillings  ;  and  in  the  end 
the  six  shillings  was  allowed  him  literally.  He  came 
out  of  the  pawn-office  joyfully,  making  a  little  cylinder 
of  the  coins  between  his  thumb  and  fingers.  In 
Westmoreland  Street  the  footpaths  were  crowded 
with  young  men  and  women  returning  from  business 
and  ragged  urchins  ran  here  and  there  yelling  out 
the  names  of  the  evening  editions.  The  man  passed 
through  the  crowd,  looking  on  the  spectacle  generally 
with  proud  satisfaction  and  staring  masterfully  at 
the  office-girls.  His  head  was  full  of  the  noises  of 
tram-gongs  and  swishing  trolleys  and  his  nose 
already  sniffed  the  curling  fumes  of  punch.    As  he 


COUNTERPARTS  113 

walked  on  he  preconsidered  the  terms  in  which  he 
would  narrate  the  incident  to  the  boys  : 

4  So,  I  just  looked  at  him — coolly,  you  know,  and 
looked  at  her.  Then  I  looked  back  at  him  again — 
taking  my  time,  you  know.  "I  don't  think  that 
that's  a  fair  question  to  put  to  me,  says  I."  ' 

Nosey  Flynn  was  sitting  up  in  his  usual  corner 
of  Davy  Byrne's  and,  when  he  heard  the  story,  he 
stood  Farrington  a  half -one,  saying  it  was  as  smart 
a  thing  as  ever  he  heard.  Farrington  stood  a  drink 
in  his  turn.  After  a  while  O'Halloran  and  Paddy 
Leonard  came  in  and  the  story  was  repeated  to  them. 
O'Halloran  stood  tailors  of  malt,  hot,  all  round  and 
told  the  story  of  the  retort  he  had  made  to  the  chief 
clerk  when  he  was  in  Callan's  of  Fownes's  Street ; 
but,  as  the  retort  was  after  the  manner  of  the  liberal 
shepherds  in  the  eclogues,  he  had  to  admit  that  it 
was  not  so  clever  as  Farrington's  retort.  At  this 
Farrington  told  the  boys  to  polish  off  that  and  have 
another. 

Just  as  they  were  naming  their  poisons  who  should 
come  in  but  Higgins  !  Of  course  he  had  to  join  in 
with  the  others.  The  men  asked  him  to  give  his 
version  of  it,  and  he  did  so  with  great  vivacity  for  the 
sight  of  five  small  hot  whiskies  was  very  exhilarating. 
Everyone  roared  laughing  when  he  showed  the  way 
in  which  Mr  Alleyne  shook  his  fist  in  Farrington's  face. 
Then  he  imitated  Farrington,  saying,  'And  here  was 
my  nabs,  as  cool  as  you  please,'  while  Farrington 
looked  at  the  company  out  of  his  heavy  dirty  eyes, 
smiling  and  at  times  drawing  forth  stray  drops  of 

H 


114  DUBLINERS 

liquor  from  his  moustache  with  the  aid  of  his  lower 
lip. 

When  that  round  was  over  there  was  a  pause. 
O'Halloran  had  money  but  neither  of  the  other  two 
seemed  to  have  any ;  so  the  whole  party  left  the  shop 
somewhat  regretfully.  At  the  corner  of  Duke  Street 
Higgins  and  Nosey  Flynn  bevelled  off  to  the  left  while 
the  other  three  turned  back  towards  the  city.  Rain 
was  drizzling  down  on  the  cold  streets  and,  when  they 
reached  the  Ballast  Office,  Farrington  suggested  the 
Scotch  House.  The  bar  was  full  of  men  and  loud  with 
the  noise  of  tongues  and  glasses.  The  three  men 
pushed  past  the  whining  match-sellers  at  the  door 
and  formed  a  little  party  at  the  corner  of  the  counter. 
They  began  to  exchange  stories.  Leonard  intro- 
duced them  to  a  young  fellow  named  Weathers  who 
was  performing  at  the  Tivoli  as  an  acrobat  and 
knockabout  artiste.  Farrington  stood  a  drink  all 
round.  Weathers  said  he  would  take  a  small  Irish 
and  Apollinaris.  Farrington,  who  had  definite 
notions  of  what  was  what,  asked  the  boys  would 
they  have  an  Apollinaris  too  ;  but  the  boys  told  Tim 
to  make  theirs  hot.  The  talk  became  theatrical. 
O'Halloran  stood  a  round  and  then  Farrington  stood 
another  round,  Weathers  protesting  that  the  hospi- 
tality was  too  Irish.  He  promised  to  get  them  in 
behind  the  scenes  and  introduce  them  to  some 
nice  girls.  O'Halloran  said  that  he  and  Leonard 
would  go  but  that  Farrington  wouldn't  go  because 
he  was  a  married  man ;  and  Farrington's  heavy 
dirty  eyes  leered  at  the  company  in  token  that  he 


COUNTERPARTS  115 

understood  he  was  being  chaffed.  Weathers  made 
them  all  have  just  one  little  tincture  at  his  expense 
and  promised  to  meet  them  later  on  at  Mulligan's  in 
Poolbeg  Street. 

When  the  Scotch  House  closed  they  went  round  to 
Mulligan's.  They  went  into  the  parlour  at  the  back 
and  O'Halloran  ordered  small  hot  specials  all  round. 
They  were  all  beginning  to  feel  mellow.  Farrington 
was  just  standing  another  round  when  Weathers 
came  back.  Much  to  Farrington's  relief  he  drank 
a  glass  of  bitter  this  time.  Funds  were  getting  low 
but  they  had  enough  to  keep  them  going.  Presently 
two  young  women  with  big  hats  and  a  young  man  in 
a  check  suit  came  in  and  sat  at  a  table  close  by. 
Weathers  saluted  them  and  told  the  company  that 
they  were  out  of  the  Tivoli.  Farrington's  eyes 
wandered  at  every  moment  in  the  direction  of  one  of 
the  young  women.  There  was  something  striking  in 
her  appearance.  An  immense  scarf  of  peacock-blue 
muslin  was  wound  round  her  hat  and  knotted  in  a 
great  bow  under  her  chin ;  and  she  wore  bright 
yellow  gloves,  reaching  to  the  elbow.  Farrington 
gazed  admiringly  at  the  plump  arm  which  she  moved 
very  often  and  with  much  grace ;  and  when,  after 
a  little  time,  she  answered  his  gaze  he  admired 
still  more  her  large  dark  brown  eyes.  The  oblique 
staring  expression  in  them  fascinated  him.  She 
glanced  at  him  once  or  twice  and,  when  the  party  was 
leaving  the  room,  she  brushed  against  his  chair  and 
said  '  0,  pardon ! '  in  a  London  accent.  He  watched 
her  leave  the  room  in  the  hope  that  she  would  look 


116  DUBLINERS 

back  at  him,  but  he  was  disappointed.  He  cursed 
his  want  of  money  and  cursed  all  the  rounds  he  had 
stood,  particularly  all  the  whiskies  and  Apollinaris 
which  he  had  stood  to  Weathers.  If  there  was  one 
thing  that  he  hated  it  was  a  sponge.  He  was  so 
angry  that  he  lost  count  of  the  conversation  of  his 
friends. 

When  Paddy  Leonard  called  him  he  found  that 
they  were  talking  about  feats  of  strength.  Weathers 
was  showing  his  biceps  muscle  to  the  company  and 
boasting  so  much  that  the  other  two  had  called  on 
Farrington  to  uphold  the  national  honour.  Farring- 
ton  pulled  up  his  sleeve  accordingly  and  showed  his 
biceps  muscle  to  the  company.  The  two  arms  were 
examined  and  compared  and  finally  it  was  agreed 
to  have  a  trial  of  strength.  The  table  was  cleared 
and  the  two  men  rested  their  elbows  on  it,  clasping 
hands.  When  Paddy  Leonard  said  *  Go  ! '  each  was 
to  try  to  bring  down  the  other's  hand  on  to  the  table. 
Farrington  looked  very  serious  and  determined. 

The  trial  began.  After  about  thirty  seconds 
Weathers  brought  his  opponent's  hand  slowly  down 
on  to  the  table.  Farrington's  dark  wine-coloured 
face  flushed  darker  still  with  anger  and  humiliation 
at  having  been  defeated  by  such  a  stripling. 

4  You're  not  to  put  the  weight  of  your  body  behind 
it.     Play  fair,'  he  said. 

1  Who's  not  playing  fair  ?  '   said  the  other. 

4  Come  on  again.    The  two  best  out  of  three.' 

The  trial  began  again.  The  veins  stood  out  on 
Farrington's  forehead,  and  the  pallor  of  Weathers' 


COUNTERPARTS  117 

complexion  changed  to  peony.  Their  hands  and 
arms  trembled  under  the  stress.  After  a  long 
struggle  Weathers  again  brought  his  opponent's 
hand  slowly  on  to  the  table.  There  was  a  murmur 
of  applause  from  the  spectators.  The  curate,  who 
was  standing  beside  the  table,  nodded  his  red  head 
towards  the  victor  and  said  with  stupid  familiarity  : 

'Ah!  that's  the  knack  ! ' 

1  What  the  hell  do  you  know  about  it  ?  '  said 
Farrington  fiercely,  turning  on  the  man.  '  What  do 
you  put  in  your  gab  for  ?  ' 

4  Sh,  sh  ! '  said  O'Halloran,  observing  the  violent 
expression  of  Farrington's  face.  '  Pony  up,  boys. 
We'll  have  just  one  little  smahan  more  and  then 
we'll  be  off.' 

A  very  sullen-faced  man  stood  at  the  corner  of 
O'Connell  Bridge  waiting  for  the  little  Sandymount 
tram  to  take  him  home.  He  was  full  of  smouldering 
anger  and  revengefulness.  He  felt  humiliated  and 
discontented ;  he  did  not  even  feel  drunk ;  and  he  had 
only  twopence  in  his  pocket.  He  cursed  everything. 
He  had  done  for  himself  in  the  office,  pawned  his 
watch,  spent  all  his  money  ;  and  he  had  not  even 
got  drunk.  He  began  to  feel  thirsty  again  and  he 
longed  to  be  back  again  in  the  hot  reeking  public- 
house.  He  had  lost  his  reputation  as  a  strong  man, 
having  been  defeated  twice  by  a  mere  boy.  His 
heart  swelled  with  fury  and,  when  he  thought  of 
the  woman  in  the  big  hat  who  had  brushed  against 
him  and  said  Pardon  !  his  fury  nearly  choked  him. 


118  DUBLINERS 

His  tram  let  him  down  at  Shelbourne  Road  and  he 
steered  his  great  body  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall 
of  the  barracks.  He  loathed  returning  to  his  home. 
When  he  went  in  by  the  side-door  he  found  the 
kitchen  empty  and  the  kitchen  fire  nearly  out.  He 
bawled  upstairs : 

'Ada!    Ada!' 

His  wife  was  a  little  sharp-faced  woman  who 
bullied  her  husband  when  he  was  sober  and  was 
bullied  by  him  when  he  was  drunk.  They  had  five 
children.     A  little  boy  came  running  down  the  stairs. 

4  Who  is  that  ? '  said  the  man,  peering  through 
the  darkness. 

4  Me,  pa.' 

1  Who  are  you  ?    Charlie  ?  ' 

1  No,  pa.    Tom.' 

4  Where's  your  mother  ?  ' 

4  She's  out  at  the  chapel.' 

4  That's  right.  .  .  .  Did  she  think  of  leaving  any 
dinner  for  me  ?  ' 

'Yes,  pa.     I ' 

4  Light  the  lamp.  What  do  you  mean  by  having 
the  place  in  darkness  ?  Are  the  other  children  in 
bed?' 

The  man  sat  down  heavily  on  one  of  the  chairs 
while  the  little  boy  lit  the  lamp.  He  began  to 
mimic  his  son's  flat  accent,  saying  half  to  himself  : 
1  At  the  chapel.  At  the  chapel,  if  you  please  ! '  When 
the  lamp  was  lit  he  banged  his  fist  on  the  table  and 
shouted : 

4  What's  for  my  dinner  ?  ' 


COUNTERPARTS  119 

'I'm  going  ...  to  cook  it,  pa,'  said  the  little 
boy. 

The  man  jumped  up  furiously  and  pointed  to  the 
fire. 

4  On  that  fire  !  You  let  the  fire  out !  By  God, 
I'll  teach  you  to  do  that  again  ! ' 

He  took  a  step  to  the  door  and  seized  the  walking- 
stick  which  was  standing  behind  it. 

4  I'll  teach  you  to  let  the  fire  out  1 '  he  said,  rolling 
up  his  sleeve  in  order  to  give  his  arm  free  play. 

The  little  boy  cried  '  0,  pa  ! '  and  ran  whimpering 
round  the  table,  but  the  man  followed  him  and  caught 
him  by  the  coat.  The  little  boy  looked  about  him 
wildly  but,  seeing  no  way  of  escape,  fell  upon  his 
knees. 

1  Now,  you'll  let  the  fire  out  the  next  time ! '  said 
the  man,  striking  at  him  viciously  with  the  stick. 
4  Take  that,  you  little  whelp  ! ' 

The  boy  uttered  a  squeal  of  pain  as  the  stick  cut 
his  thigh.  He  clasped  his  hands  together  in  the  air 
and  his  voice  shook  with  fright. 

4  O,  pa  ! '  he  cried.  4  Don't  beat  me,  pa !  And 
I'll  .  .  .  I'll  say  a  Hail  Mary  for  you.  .  .  .  I'll  say 
a  Hail  Mary  for  you,  pa,  if  you  don't  beat  me.  .  .  . 
I'll  say  a  Hail  Mary  .  .  .' 


CLAY 

The  matron  had  given  her  leave  to  go  out  as  soon  as 
the  women's  tea  was  over  and  Maria  looked  forward 
to  her  evening  out.  The  kitchen  was  spick  and  span  : 
the  cook  said  you  could  see  yourself  in  the  big  copper 
boilers.  The  fire  was  nice  and  bright  and  on  one  of 
the  side-tables  were  four  very  big  barmbracks.  These 
barmbracks  seemed  uncut ;  but  if  you  went  closer 
you  would  see  that  they  had  been  cut  into  long  thick 
even  slices  and  were  ready  to  be  handed  round  at  tea. 
Maria  had  cut  them  herself. 

Maria  was  a  very,  very  small  person  indeed  but 
she  had  a  very  long  nose  and  a  very  long  chin.  She 
talked  a  little  through  her  nose,  always  soothingly  : 
■  Yes,  my  dear?  and  'No,  my  dear.'  She  was  always 
sent  for  when  the  women  quarrelled  over  their  tubs 
and  always  succeeded  in  making  peace.  One  day 
the  matron  had  said  to  her: 

1  Maria,  you  are  a  veritable  peace-maker  ! ' 

And  the  sub-matron  and  two  of  the  Board  ladies 
had  heard  the  compliment.  And  Ginger  Mooney 
was  always  saying  what  she  wouldn't  do  to  the 
dummy  who  had  charge  of  the  irons  if  it  wasn't  for 
Maria.     Everyone  was  so  fond  of  Maria. 

The  women  would  have  their  tea  at  six  o'clock 
and  she  would  be  able  to  get  away  before  seven. 

120 


CLAY  121 

From  Ballsbridge  to  the  Pillar,  twenty  minutes ; 
from  the  Pillar  to  Drumcondra,  twenty  minutes ;  and 
twenty  minutes  to  buy  the  things.  She  would  be 
there  before  eight.  She  took  out  her  purse  with  the 
silver  clasps  and  read  again  the  words  A  Present  from 
Belfast.  She  was  very  fond  of  that  purse  because 
Joe  had  brought  it  to  her  five  years  before  when  he 
and  Alphy  had  gone  to  Belfast  on  a  Whit-Monday 
trip.  In  the  purse  were  two  half-crowns  and  some 
coppers.  She  would  have  five  shillings  clear  after 
paying  tram  fare.  What  a  nice  evening  they  would 
have,  all  the  children  singing  !  Only  she  hoped  that 
Joe  wouldn't  come  in  drunk.  He  was  so  different 
when  he  took  any  drink. 

Often  he  had  wanted  her  to  go  and  live  with 
them  ;  but  she  would  have  felt  herself  in  the  way 
(though  Joe's  wife  was  ever  so  nice  with  her)  and  she 
had  become  accustomed  to  the  life  of  the  laundry. 
Joe  was  a  good  fellow.  She  had  nursed  him  and 
Alphy  too  ;  and  Joe  used  often  say  : 

1  Mamma  is  mamma  but  Maria  is  my  proper 
mother.' 

After  the  break-up  at  home  the  boys  had  got  her 
that  position  in  the  Dublin  by  Lamplight  laundry,  and 
she  liked  it.  She  used  to  have  such  a  bad  opinion 
of  Protestants  but  now  she  thought  they  were  very 
nice  people,  a  little  quiet  and  serious,  but  still  very 
nice  people  to  live  with.  Then  she  had  her  plants  in 
the  conservatory  and  she  liked  looking  after  them. 
She  had  lovely  ferns  and  wax-plants  and,  whenever 
anyone  came  to  visit  her,  she  always  gave  the  visitor 


122  DUBLINERS 

one  or  two  slips  from  her  conservatory.  There  was 
one  thing  she  didn't  like  and  that  was  the  tracts  on 
the  walls  ;  but  the  matron  was  such  a  nice  person  to 
deal  with,  so  genteel. 

When  the  cook  told  her  everything  was  ready  she 
went  into  the  women's  room  and  began  to  pull  the 
big  bell.  In  a  few  minutes  the  women  began  to 
come  in  by  twos  and  threes,  wiping  their  steaming 
hands  in  their  petticoats  and  pulling  down  the  sleeves 
of  their  blouses  over  their  red  steaming  arms.  They 
settled  down  before  their  huge  mugs  which  the  cook 
and  the  dummy  filled  up  with  hot  tea,  already  mixed 
with  milk  and  sugar  in  huge  tin  cans.  Maria  super- 
intended the  distribution  of  the  barmbrack  and  saw 
that  every  woman  got  her  four  slices.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  laughing  and  joking  during  the  meal. 
Lizzie  Fleming  said  Maria  was  sure  to  get  the  ring 
and,  though  Fleming  had  said  that  for  so  many  Hallow 
Eves,  Maria  had  to  laugh  and  say  she  didn't  want 
any  ring  or  man  either  ;  and  when  she  laughed  her 
grey-green  eyes  sparkled  with  disappointed  shyness 
and  the  tip  of  her  nose  nearly  met  the  tip  of  her  chin. 
Then  Ginger  Mooney  lifted  up  her  mug  of  tea  and 
proposed  Maria's  health  while  all  the  other  women 
clattered  with  their  mugs  on  the  table,  and  said  she 
was  sorry  she  hadn't  a  sup  of  porter  to  drink  it  in. 
And  Maria  laughed  again  till  the  tip  of  her  nose  nearly 
met  the  tip  of  her  chin  and  till  her  minute  body 
nearly  shook  itself  asunder  because  she  knew  that 
Mooney  meant  well  though,  of  course,  she  had  the 
notions  of  a  common  woman. 


CLAY  123 

But  wasn't  Maria  glad  when  the  women  had 
finished  their  tea  and  the  cook  and  the  dummy  had 
begun  to  clear  away  the  tea-things  !  She  went  into 
her  little  bedroom  and,  remembering  that  the  next 
morning  was  a  mass  morning,  changed  the  hand  of 
the  alarm  from  seven  to  six.  Then  she  took  off  her 
working  skirt  and  her  house-boots  and  laid  her  best 
skirt  out  on  the  bed  and  her  tiny  dress-boots  beside 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  changed  her  blouse  too  and, 
as  she  stood  before  the  mirror,  she  thought  of  how 
she  used  to  dress  for  mass  on  Sunday  morning  when 
she  was  a  young  girl ;  and  she  looked  with  quaint 
affection  at  the  diminutive  body  which  she  had  so 
often  adorned.  In  spite  of  its  years  she  found  it  a 
nice  tidy  little  body. 

When  she  got  outside  the  streets  were  shining  with 
rain  and  she  was  glad  of  her  old  brown  waterproof. 
The  tram  was  full  and  she  had  to  sit  on  the  little  stool 
at  the  end  of  the  car,  facing  all  the  people,  with  her 
toes  barely  touching  the  floor.  She  arranged  in  her 
mind  all  she  was  going  to  do  and  thought  how  much 
better  it  was  to  be  independent  and  to  have  your 
own  money  in  your  pocket.  She  hoped  they  would 
have  a  nice  evening.  She  was  sure  they  would 
but  she  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  pity  it  was 
Alphy  and  Joe  were  not  speaking.  They  were  always 
falling  out  now  but  when  they  were  boys  together 
they  used  to  be  the  best  of  friends :  but  such  was 
life. 

She  got  out  of  her  tram  at  the  Pillar  and  ferreted 
her  way  quickly  among  the  crowds.    She  went  into 


124  DUBLINERS 

Downes's  cake-shop  but  the  shop  was  so  full  of  people 
that  it  was  a  long  time  before  she  could  get  herself 
attended  to.  She  bought  a  dozen  of  mixed  penny 
cakes,  and  at  last  came  out  of  the  shop  laden  with 
a  big  bag.  Then  she  thought  what  else  would  she 
buy :  she  wanted  to  buy  something  really  nice.  They 
would  be  sure  to  have  plenty  of  apples  and  nuts. 
It  was  hard  to  know  what  to  buy  and  all  she  could 
think  of  was  cake.  She  decided  to  buy  some  plum- 
cake  but  Downes's  plumcake  had  not  enough  almond 
icing  on  top  of  it  so  she  went  over  to  a  shop  in  Henry 
Street.  Here  she  was  a  long  time  in  suiting  herself 
and  the  stylish  young  lady  behind  the  counter,  who 
was  evidently  a  little  annoyed  by  her,  asked  her  was 
it  wedding-cake  she  wanted  to  buy.  That  made 
Maria  blush  and  smile  at  the  young  lady  ;  but  the 
young  lady  took  it  all  very  seriously  and  finally  cut 
a  thick  slice  of  plumcake,  parcelled  it  up  and  said  : 

4  Two-and-four,  please.' 

She  thought  she  would  have  to  stand  in  the  Drum- 
condra  tram  because  none  of  the  young  men  seemed 
to  notice  her  but  an  elderly  gentleman  made  room 
for  her.  He  was  a  stout  gentleman  and  he  wore  a 
brown  hard  hat ;  he  had  a  square  red  face  and  a 
greyish  moustache.  Maria  thought  he  was  a  colonel- 
looking  gentleman  and  she  reflected  how  much  more 
polite  he  was  than  the  young  men  who  simply  stared 
straight  before  them.  The  gentleman  began  to  chat 
with  her  about  Hallow  Eve  and  the  rainy  weather. 
He  supposed  the  bag  was  full  of  good  things  for 
the  little  ones  and  said  it  was  only  right  that  the 


CLAY  125 

youngsters  should  enjoy  themselves  while  they  were 
young.  Maria  agreed  with  him  and  favoured  him 
with  demure  nods  and  hems.  He  was  very  nice  with 
her,  and  when  she  was  getting  out  at  the  Canal 
Bridge  she  thanked  him  and  bowed,  and  he  bowed 
to  her  and  raised  his  hat  and  smiled  agreeably  ;  and 
while  she  was  going  up  along  the  terrace,  bending 
her  tiny  head  under  the  rain,  she  thought  how  easy 
it  was  to  know  a  gentleman  even  when  he  has  a  drop 
taken. 

Everybody  said :  *  0,  here's  Maria ! '  when  she  came 
to  Joe's  house.  Joe  was  there,  having  come  home 
from  business,  and  all  the  children  had  their  Sunday 
dresses  on.  There  were  two  big  girls  in  from  next 
door  and  games  were  going  on.  Maria  gave  the  bag 
of  cakes  to  the  eldest  boy,  Alphy,  to  divide  and  Mrs 
Donnelly  said  it  was  too  good  of  her  to  bring  such 
a  big  bag  of  cakes  and  made  all  the  children  say  : 

4  Thanks,  Maria.' 

But  Maria  said  she  had  brought  something  special 
for  papa  and  mamma,  something  they  would  be  sure 
to  like,  and  she  began  to  look  for  her  plumcake. 
She  tried  in  Downes's  bag  and  then  in  the  pockets  of 
her  waterproof  and  then  on  the  hallstand  but  no- 
where could  she  find  it.  Then  she  asked  all  the 
children  had  any  of  them  eaten  it — by  mistake,  of 
course — but  the  children  all  said  no  and  looked  as  if 
they  did  not  like  to  eat  cakes  if  they  were  to  be  accused 
of  stealing.  Everybody  had  a  solution  for  the  mystery 
and  Mrs  Donnelly  said  it  was  plain  that  Maria  had 
left  it  behind  her  in  the  tram.    Maria,  remembering 


126  DUBLINERS 

how  confused  the  gentleman  with  the  greyish  mous- 
tache had  made  her,  coloured  with  shame  and  vexa- 
tion and  disappointment.  At  the  thought  of  the 
failure  of  her  little  surprise  and  of  the  two  and  four- 
pence  she  had  thrown  away  for  nothing  she  nearly 
cried  outright. 

But  Joe  said  it  didn't  matter  and  made  her  sit 
down  by  the  fire.  He  was  very  nice  with  her.  He 
told  her  all  that  went  on  in  his  office,  repeating  for  her 
a  smart  answer  which  he  had  made  to  the  manager. 
Maria  did  not  understand  why  Joe  laughed  so  much 
over  the  answer  he  had  made  but  she  said  that  the 
manager  must  have  been  a  very  overbearing  person 
to  deal  with.  Joe  said  he  wasn't  so  bad  when  you 
knew  how  to  take  him,  that  he  was  a  decent  sort  so 
long  as  you  didn't  rub  him  the  wrong  way.  Mrs 
Donnelly  played  the  piano  for  the  children  and  they 
danced  and  sang.  Then  the  two  next-door  girls 
handed  round  the  nuts.  Nobody  could  find  the  nut- 
crackers and  Joe  was  nearly  getting  cross  over  it 
and  asked  how  did  they  expect  Maria  to  crack  nuts 
without  a  nutcracker.  But  Maria  said  she  didn't 
like  nuts  and  that  they  weren't  to  bother  about  her. 
Then  Joe  asked  would  she  take  a  bottle  of  stout  and 
Mrs  Donnelly  said  there  was  port  wine  too  in  the 
house  if  she  would  prefer  that.  Maria  said  she  would 
rather  they  didn't  ask  her  to  take  anything :  but 
Joe  insisted. 

So  Maria  let  him  have  his  way  and  they  sat  by  the 
fire  talking  over  old  times  and  Maria  thought  she 
would  put  in  a  good  word  for  Alphy.     But  Joe  cried 


CLAY  127 

that  God  might  strike  him  stone  dead  if  ever  he  spoke 
a  word  to  his  brother  again  and  Maria  said  she  was 
sorry  she  had  mentioned  the  matter.  Mrs  Donnelly- 
told  her  husband  it  was  a  great  shame  for  him  to 
speak  that  way  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood  but  Joe 
said  that  Alphy  was  no  brother  of  his  and  there  was 
nearly  being  a  row  on  the  head  of  it.  But  Joe  said 
he  would  not  lose  his  temper  on  account  of  the  night 
it  was  and  asked  his  wife  to  open  some  more  stout. 
The  two  next-door  girls  had  arranged  some  Hallow 
Eve  games  and  soon  everything  was  merry  again. 
Maria  was  delighted  to  see  the  children  so  merry  and 
Joe  and  his  wife  in  such  good  spirits.  The  next-door 
girls  put  some  saucers  on  the  table  and  then  led  the 
children  up  to  the  table,  blindfold.  One  got  the 
prayer-book  and  the  other  three  got  the  water  ;  and 
when  one  of  the  next-door  girls  got  the  ring  Mrs 
Donnelly  shook  her  finger  at  the  blushing  girl  as  much 
as  to  say  :  0,  /  know  all  about  it !  They  insisted 
then  on  blindfolding  Maria  and  leading  her  up  to  the 
table  to  see  what  she  would  get ;  and,  while  they 
were  putting  on  the  bandage,  Maria  laughed  and 
laughed  again  till  the  tip  of  her  nose  nearly  met  the 
tip  of  her  chin. 

They  led  her  up  to  the  table  amid  laughing  and 
joking  and  she  put  her  hand  out  in  the  air  as  she  was 
told  to  do.  She  moved  her  hand  about  here  and  there 
in  the  air  and  descended  on  one  of  the  saucers.  She 
felt  a  soft  wet  substance  with  her  fingers  and  was 
surprised  that  nobody  spoke  or  took  off  her  bandage. 
There  was  a  pause  for  a  few  seconds ;   and  then  a 


128  DUBLINERS 

great  deal  of  scuffling  and  whispering.  Somebody 
said  something  about  the  garden,  and  at  last  Mrs 
Donnelly  said  something  very  cross  to  one  of  the 
next-door  girls  and  told  her  to  throw  it  out  at  once  : 
that  was  no  play.  Maria  understood  that  it  was 
wrong  that  time  and  so  she  had  to  do  it  over  again  : 
and  this  time  she  got  the  prayer-book. 

After  that  Mrs  Donnelly  played  Miss  McCloud's 
Reel  for  the  children  and  Joe  made  Maria  take  a 
glass  of  wine.  Soon  they  were  all  quite  merry  again 
and  Mrs  Donnelly  said  Maria  would  enter  a  convent 
before  the  year  was  out  because  she  had  got  the 
prayer-book.  Maria  had  never  seen  Joe  so  nice  to  her 
as  he  was  that  night,  so  full  of  pleasant  talk  and 
reminiscences.  She  said  they  were  all  very  good  to 
her. 

At  last  the  children  grew  tired  and  sleepy  and  Joe 
asked  Maria  would  she  not  sing  some  little  song  before 
she  went,  one  of  the  old  songs.  Mrs  Donnelly  said 
1  Do,  please,  Maria. V  and  so  Maria  had  to  get  up 
and  stand  beside  the  piano.  Mrs  Donnelly  bade 
the  children  be  quiet  and  listen  to  Maria's  song. 
Then  she  played  the  prelude  and  said  '  Now,  Maria ! % 
and  Maria,  blushing  very  much,  began  to  sing  in 
a  tiny  quavering  voice.  She  sang  /  Dreamt  that  I 
Dwelt,  and  when  she  came  to  the  second  verse  she 
sang  again : 

1  J  dreamt  that  I  dwelt  in  marble  halls 
With  vassals  and  serfs  at  my  side 
A  nd  of  all  who  assembled  within  those  walls 
That  I  was  the  hope  and  the  pride. 


CLAY  129 

I  had  riches  too  great  to  count,  could  boast 

Of  a  high  ancestral  name, 
But  I  also  dreamt,  which  pleased  me  most, 

That  you  loved  me  still  the  same.' 

But  no  one  tried  to  show  her  her  mistake ;  and 
when  she  had  ended  her  song  Joe  was  very  much 
moved.  He  said  that  there  was  no  time  like  the  long 
ago  and  no  music  for  him  like  poor  old  Balfe,  what- 
ever other  people  might  say  ;  and  his  eyes  filled  up 
so  much  with  tears  that  he  could  not  find  what  he 
was  looking  for  and  in  the  end  he  had  to  ask  his  wife 
to  tell  him  where  the  corkscrew  was. 


A  PAINFUL  CASE 

Me  James  Duffy  lived  in  Chapelizod  because  he 
wished  to  live  as  far  as  possible  from  the  city  of 
which  he  was  a  citizen  and  because  he  found  all  the 
other  suburbs  of  Dublin  mean,  modern  and  pre- 
tentious. He  lived  in  an  old  sombre  house  and  from 
his  windows  he  could  look  into  the  disused  distillery 
or  upwards  along  the  shallow  river  on  which  Dublin 
is  built.  The  lofty  walls  of  his  uncarpeted  room 
were  free  from  pictures.  He  had  himself  bought 
every  article  of  furniture  in  the  room  :  a  black  iron 
bedstead,  an  iron  washstand,  four  cane  chairs,  a 
clothes-rack,  a  coal-scuttle,  a  fender  and  irons  and 
a  square  table  on  which  lay  a  double  desk.  A  book- 
case had  been  made  in  an  alcove  by  means  of  shelves 
of  white  wood.  The  bed  was  clothed  with  white 
bed-clothes  and  a  black  and  scarlet  rug  covered  the 
foot.  A  little  hand-mirror  hung  above  the  wash- 
stand  and  during  the  day  a  white-shaded  lamp  stood 
as  the  sole  ornament  of  the  mantelpiece.  The  books 
on  the  white  wooden  shelves  were  arranged  from 
below  upwards  according  to  bulk.  A  complete 
Wordsworth  stood  at  one  end  of  the  lowest  shelf  and 
a  copy  of  the  Maynooih  Catechism,  sewn  into  the 
cloth  cover  of  a  notebook,  stood  at  one  end  of 
the  top  shelf.     Writing  materials  were  always  on  the 

130 


A  PAINFUL  CASE  131 

desk.  In  the  desk  lay  a  manuscript  translation  of 
Hauptmann's  Michael  Kramer,  the  stage  directions 
of  which  were  written  in  purple  ink,  and  a  little  sheaf 
of  papers  held  together  by  a  brass  pin.  In  these 
sheets  a  sentence  was  inscribed  from  time  to  time 
and,  in  an  ironical  moment,  the  headline  of  an 
advertisement  for  Bile  Beans  had  been  pasted  on  to 
the  first  sheet.  On  lifting  the  lid  of  the  desk  a  faint 
fragrance  escaped — the  fragrance  of  new  cedarwood 
pencils  or  of  a  bottle  of  gum  or  of  an  over-ripe  apple 
which  might  have  been  left  there  and  forgotten. 

Mr  Duffy  abhorred  anything  which  betokened 
physical  or  mental  disorder.  A  mediaeval  doctor 
would  have  called  him  saturnine.  His  face,  which 
carried  the  entire  tale  of  his  years,  was  of  the  brown 
tint  of  Dublin  streets.  On  his  long  and  rather  large 
head  grew  dry  black  hair  and  a  tawny  moustache 
did  not  quite  cover  an  unamiable  mouth.  His  cheek- 
bones also  gave  his  face  a  harsh  character  ;  but  there 
was  no  harshness  in  the  eyes  which,  looking  at  the 
world  from  under  their  tawny  eyebrows,  gave  the 
impression  of  a  man  ever  alert  to  greet  a  redeeming 
instinct  in  others  but  often  disappointed.  He  lived 
at  a  little  distance  from  his  body,  regarding  his  own 
acts  with  doubtful  side-glances.  He  had  an  odd 
autobiographical  habit  which  led  him  to  compose  in 
his  mind  from  time  to  time  a  short  sentence  about 
himself  containing  a  subject  in  the  third  person 
and  a  predicate  in  the  past  tense.  He  never  gave 
alms  to  beggars  and  walked  firmly,  carrying  a  stout 
hazel. 


132  DUBLINERS 

He  had  been  for  many  years  cashier  of  a  private 
bank  in  Baggot  Street.  Every  morning  he  came  in 
from  Chapelizod  by  tram.  At  midday  he  went  to 
Dan  Burke's  and  took  his  lunch — a  bottle  of  lager 
beer  and  a  small  trayful  of  arrowroot  biscuits.  At 
four  o'clock  he  was  set  free.  He  dined  in  an  eating- 
house  in  George's  Street  where  he  felt  himself  safe 
from  the  society  of  Dublin's  gilded  youth  and  where 
there  was  a  certain  plain  honesty  in  the  bill  of  fare. 
His  evenings  were  spent  either  before  his  landlady's 
piano  or  roaming  about  the  outskirts  of  the  city. 
His  liking  for  Mozart's  music  brought  him  sometimes 
to  an  opera  or  a  concert :  these  were  the  only 
dissipations  of  his  life. 

He  had  neither  companions  nor  friends,  church  nor 
creed.  He  lived  his  spiritual  life  without  any  com- 
munion with  others,  visiting  his  relatives  at  Christmas 
and  escorting  them  to  the  cemetery  when  they  died. 
He  performed  these  two  social  duties  for  old  dignity' 
sake  but  conceded  nothing  further  to  the  conventions 
which  regulate  the  civic  life.  He  allowed  himself 
to  think  that  in  certain  circumstances  he  would 
rob  his  bank  but,  as  these  circumstances  never 
arose,  his  life  rolled  out  evenly — an  adventureless 
tale. 

One  evening  he  found  himself  sitting  beside  two 
ladies  in  the  Rotunda.  The  house,  thinly  peopled 
and  silent,  gave  distressing  prophecy  of  failure.  The 
lady  who  sat  next  him  looked  round  at  the  deserted 
house  once  or  twice  and  then  said  : 

4  What  a  pity  there  is  such  a  poor  house  to-night ! 


A  PAINFUL  CASE  183 

It's  so  hard  on  people  to  have  to  sing  to  empty 
benches.' 

He  took  the  remark  as  an  invitation  to  talk.  He 
was  surprised  that  she  seemed  so  little  awkward. 
While  they  talked  he  tried  to  fix  her  permanently  in 
his  memory.  When  he  learned  that  the  young  girl 
beside  her  was  her  daughter  he  judged  her  to  be  a 
year  or  so  younger  than  himself.  Her  face,  which 
must  have  been  handsome,  had  remained  intelligent. 
It  was  an  oval  face  with  strongly  marked  features. 
The  eyes  were  very  dark  blue  and  steady.  Their 
gaze  began  with  a  defiant  note  but  was  confused  by 
what  seemed  a  deliberate  swoon  of  the  pupil  into 
the  iris,  revealing  for  an  instant  a  temperament  of 
great  sensibility.  The  pupil  reasserted  itself  quickly, 
this  half -disclosed  nature  fell  again  under  the  reign 
of  prudence,  and  her  astrakhan  jacket,  moulding  a 
bosom  of  a  certain  fulness,  struck  the  note  of  defiance 
more  definitely. 

He  met  her  again  a  few  weeks  afterwards  at  a 
concert  in  Earlsf  ort  Terrace  and  seized  the  moments 
when  her  daughter's  attention  was  diverted  to  become 
intimate.  She  alluded  once  or  twice  to  her  husband 
but  her  tone  was  not  such  as  to  make  the  allusion  a 
warning.  Her  name  was  Mrs  Sinico.  Her  husband's 
great-great-grandfather  had  come  from  Leghorn. 
Her  husband  was  captain  of  a  mercantile  boat  plying 
between  Dublin  and  Holland ;  and  they  had  one 
child. 

Meeting  her  a  third  time  by  accident  he  found 
courage  to  make  an  appointment.     She  came.     This 


184  DUBLINERS 

was  the  first  of  many  meetings ;  they  met  always 
in  the  evening  and  chose  the  most  quiet  quarters  for 
their  walks  together.  Mr  Duffy,  however,  had  a 
distaste  for  underhand  ways  and,  finding  that  they 
were  compelled  to  meet  stealthily,  he  forced  her  to 
ask  him  to  her  house.  Captain  Sinico  encouraged 
his  visits,  thinking  that  his  daughter's  hand  was  in 
question.  He  had  dismissed  his  wife  so  sincerely 
from  his  gallery  of  pleasures  that  he  did  not  suspect 
that  anyone  else  would  take  an  interest  in  her.  As  the 
husband  was  often  away  and  the  daughter  out  giving 
music  lessons  Mr  Duffy  had  many  opportunities  of 
enjoying  the  lady's  society.  Neither  he  nor  she  had 
had  any  such  adventure  before  and  neither  was 
conscious  of  any  incongruity.  Little  by  little  he 
entangled  his  thoughts  with  hers.  He  lent  her  books, 
provided  her  with  ideas,  shared  his  intellectual  life 
with  her.     She  listened  to  all. 

Sometimes  in  return  for  his  theories  she  gave  out 
some  fact  of  her  own  life.  With  almost  maternal 
solicitude  she  urged  him  to  let  his  nature  open  to  the 
full ;  she  became  his  confessor.  He  told  her  that  for 
some  time  he  had  assisted  at  the  meetings  of  an  Irish 
Socialist  Party  where  he  had  felt  himself  a  unique 
figure  amidst  a  score  of  sober  workmen  in  a  garret 
lit  by  an  inefficient  oil-lamp.  When  the  party  had 
divided  into  three  sections,  each  under  its  own 
leader  and  in  its  own  garret,  he  had  discontinued  his 
attendances.  The  workmen's  discussions,  he  said, 
were  too  timorous ;  the  interest  they  took  in  the 
question  of  wages  was  inordinate.    He  felt  that  they 


A  PAINFUL  CASE  135 

were  hard-featured  realists  and  that  they  resented 
an  exactitude  which  was  the  produce  of  a  leisure 
not  within  their  reach.  No  social  revolution,  he 
told  her,  would  be  likely  to  strike  Dublin  for  some 
centuries. 

She  asked  him  why  did  he  not  write  out  his 
thoughts.  For  what,  he  asked  her,  with  careful 
scorn.  To  compete  with  phrasemongers,  incapable 
of  thinking  consecutively  for  sixty  seconds  ?  To 
submit  himself  to  the  criticisms  of  an  obtuse  middle 
class  which  entrusted  its  morality  to  policemen  and 
its  fine  arts  to  impresarios  ? 

He  went  often  to  her  little  cottage  outside  Dublin  ; 
often  they  spent  their  evenings  alone.  Little  by 
little,  as  their  thoughts  entangled,  they  spoke  of 
subjects  less  remote.  Her  companionship  was  like 
a  warm  soil  about  an  exotic.  Many  times  she  allowed 
the  dark  to  fall  upon  them,  refraining  from  lighting 
the  lamp.  The  dark  discreet  room,  their  isolation, 
the  music  that  still  vibrated  in  their  ears  united  them. 
This  union  exalted  him,  wore  away  the  rough  edges 
of  his  character,  emotionalised  his  mental  life.  Some- 
times he  caught  himself  listening  to  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice.  He  thought  that  in  her  eyes  he  would 
ascend  to  an  angelical  stature  ;  and,  as  he  attached 
the  fervent  nature  of  his  companion  more  and  more 
closely  to  him,  he  heard  the  strange  impersonal  voice 
which  he  recognised  as  his  own,  insisting  on  the  soul's 
incurable  loneliness.  We  cannot  give  ourselves,  it 
said  :  we  are  our  own.  The  end  of  these  discourses 
was  that  one  night  during  which  she  had  shown  every 


136  DUBLINERS 

sign  of  unusual  excitement,  Mrs  Sinico  caught  up  his 
hand  passionately  and  pressed  it  to  her  cheek. 

Mr  Duffy  was  very  much  surprised.  Her  inter- 
pretation of  his  words  disillusioned  him.  He  did  not 
visit  her  for  a  week  ;  then  he  wrote  to  her  asking  her 
to  meet  him.  As  he  did  not  wish  their  last  interview 
to  be  troubled  by  the  influence  of  their  ruined  con- 
fessional they  met  in  a  little  cakeshop  near  the  Park- 
gate.  It  was  cold  autumn  weather  but  in  spite  of 
the  cold  they  wandered  up  and  down  the  roads  of  the 
Park  for  nearly  three  hours.  They  agreed  to  break 
off  their  intercourse  :  every  bond,  he  said,  is  a  bond 
to  sorrow.  When  they  came  out  of  the  Park  they 
walked  in  silence  towards  the  tram ;  but  here  she 
began  to  tremble  so  violently  that,  fearing  another 
collapse  on  her  part,  he  bade  her  good-bye  quickly 
and  left  her.  A  few  days  later  he  received  a  parcel 
containing  his  books  and  music. 

Four  years  passed.  Mr  Duffy  returned  to  his 
even  way  of  life.  His  room  still  bore  witness  of  the 
orderliness  of  his  mind.  Some  new  pieces  of  music 
encumbered  the  music-stand  in  the  lower  room  and 
on  his  shelves  stood  two  volumes  by  Nietzsche  : 
Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  and  The  Gay  Science.  He 
wrote  seldom  in  the  sheaf  of  papers  which  lay  in 
his  desk.  One  of  his  sentences,  written  two  months 
after  his  last  interview  with  Mrs  Sinico,  read  :  Love 
between  man  and  man  is  impossible  because  there 
must  not  be  sexual  intercourse  and  friendship  between 
man  and  woman  is  impossible  because  there  must  be 
sexual  intercourse.     He  kept  away  from  concerts 


A  PAINFUL  CASE  137 

lest  he  should  meet  her.  His  father  died  ;  the  junior 
partner  of  the  bank  retired.  And  still  every  morning 
he  went  into  the  city  by  tram  and  every  evening 
walked  home  from  the  city  after  having  dined 
moderately  in  George's  Street  and  read  the  evening 
paper  for  dessert. 

One  evening  as  he  was  about  to  put  a  morsel  of 
corned  beef  and  cabbage  into  his  mouth  his  hand 
stopped.  His  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  a  paragraph 
in  the  evening  paper  which  he  had  propped  against 
the  water-carafe.  He  replaced  the  morsel  of  food 
on  his  plate  and  read  the  paragraph  attentively. 
Then  he  drank  a  glass  of  water,  pushed  his  plate  to 
one  side,  doubled  the  paper  down  before  him  between 
his  elbows  and  read  the  paragraph  over  and  over  again. 
The  cabbage  began  to  deposit  a  cold  white  grease  on 
his  plate.  The  girl  came  over  to  him  to  ask  was  his 
dinner  not  properly  cooked.  He  said  it  was  very 
good  and  ate  a  few  mouthfuls  of  it  with  difficulty. 
Then  he  paid  his  bill  and  went  out. 

He  walked  along  quickly  through  the  November 
twilight,  his  stout  hazel  stick  striking  the  ground 
regularly,  the  fringe  of  the  buff  Mail  peeping  out  of  a 
side-pocket  of  his  tight  reefer  over-coat.  On  the  lonely 
road  which  leads  from  the  Parkgate  to  Chapelizod 
he  slackened  his  pace.  His  stick  struck  the  ground 
less  emphatically  and  his  breath,  issuing  irregularly, 
almost  with  a  sighing  sound,  condensed  in  the  wintry 
air.  When  he  reached  his  house  he  went  up  at  once 
to  his  bedroom  and,  taking  the  paper  from  his  pocket, 
read  the  paragraph  again  by  the  failing  light  of  the 


138  DUBLINERS 

window.  He  read  it  not  aloud,  but  moving  his  lips 
as  a  priest  does  when  he  reads  the  prayers  Secreto. 
This  was  the  paragraph  : 


DEATH  OF  A  LADY  AT  SYDNEY  PARADE 
A  Painful  Case 

To-day  at  the  City  of  Dublin  Hospital  the  Deputy 
Coroner  (in  the  absence  of  Mr  Leverett)  held  an 
inquest  on  the  body  of  Mrs  Emily  Sinico,  aged 
forty-three  years,  who  was  killed  at  Sydney  Parade 
Station  yesterday  evening.  The  evidence  showed 
that  the  deceased  lady,  while  attempting  to  cross  the 
line,  was  knocked  down  by  the  engine  of  the  ten- 
o'clock  slow  train  from  Kingstown,  thereby  sustain- 
ing injuries  of  the  head  and  right  side  which  led  to 
her  death. 

James  Lennon,  driver  of  the  engine,  stated  that 
he  had  been  in  the  employment  of  the  railway 
company  for  fifteen  years.  On  hearing  the  guard's 
whistle  he  set  the  train  in  motion  and  a  second  or 
two  afterwards  brought  it  to  rest  in  response  to  loud 
cries.     The  train  was  going  slowly. 

P.  Dunne,  railway  porter,  stated  that  as  the  train 
was  about  to  start  he  observed  a  woman  attempting 
to  cross  the  lines.  He  ran  towards  her  and  shouted 
but,  before  he  could  reach  her,  she  was  caught  by  the 
buffer  of  the  engine  and  fell  to  the  ground. 

A  juror.     c  You  saw  the  lady  fall  ?  ' 


A  PAINFUL  CASE  189 

Witness.     c  Yes.' 

Police  Sergeant  Croly  deposed  that  when  he 
arrived  he  found  the  deceased  lying  on  the  platform 
apparently  dead.  He  had  the  body  taken  to  the 
waiting-room  pending  the  arrival  of  the  ambulance. 

Constable  57E  corroborated. 

Dr  Halpin,  assistant  house  surgeon  of  the  City  of 
Dublin  Hospital,  stated  that  the  deceased  had  two 
lower  ribs  fractured  and  had  sustained  severe  con- 
tusions of  the  right  shoulder.  The  right  side  of  the 
head  had  been  injured  in  the  fall.  The  injuries  were 
not  sufficient  to  have  caused  death  in  a  normal 
person.  Death,  in  his  opinion,  had  been  probably 
due  to  shock  and  sudden  failure  of  the  heart's 
action. 

Mr  H.  B.  Patterson  Finlay,  on  behalf  of  the  railway 
company,  expressed  his  deep  regret  at  the  accident. 
The  company  had  always  taken  every  precaution 
to  prevent  people  crossing  the  lines  except  by  the 
bridges,  both  by  placing  notices  in  every  station  and 
by  the  use  of  patent  spring  gates  at  level  crossings. 
The  deceased  had  been  in  the  habit  of  crossing  the 
lines  late  at  night  from  platform  to  platform  and,  in 
view  of  certain  other  circumstances  of  the  case,  he 
did  not  think  the  railway  officials  were  to  blame. 

Captain  Sinico,  of  Leoville,  Sydney  Parade, 
husband  of  the  deceased,  also  gave  evidence.  He 
stated  that  the  deceased  was  his  wife.  He  was  not 
in  Dublin  at  the  time  of  the  accident  as  he  had 
arrived  only  that  morning  from  Rotterdam.  They 
had  been  married  for  twenty-two  years  and  had 


140  DUBLINERS 

lived  happily  until  about  two  years  ago  when  his 
wife  began  to  be  rather  intemperate  in  her  habits. 

Miss  Mary  Sinico  said  that  of  late  her  mother  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  going  out  at  night  to  buy  spirits. 
She,  witness,  had  often  tried  to  reason  with  her 
mother  and  had  induced  her  to  join  a  League.  She 
was  not  at  home  until  an  hour  after  the  accident. 

The  jury  returned  a  verdict  in  accordance  with 
the  medical  evidence  and  exonerated  Lennon  from 
all  blame. 

The  Deputy  Coroner  said  it  was  a  most  painful 
case,  and  expressed  great  sympathy  with  Captain 
Sinico  and  his  daughter.  He  urged  on  the  railway 
company  to  take  strong  measures  to  prevent  the 
possibility  of  similar  accidents  in  the  future.  No 
blame  attached  to  anyone. 

Mr  Duffy  raised  his  eyes  from  the  paper  and  gazed 
out  of  his  window  on  the  cheerless  evening  landscape. 
The  river  lay  quiet  beside  the  empty  distillery  and 
from  time  to  time  a  light  appeared  in  some  house 
on  the  Lucan  road.  What  an  end !  The  whole 
narrative  of  her  death  revolted  him  and  it  revolted 
him  to  think  that  he  had  ever  spoken  to  her  of  what 
he  held  sacred.  The  threadbare  phrases,  the  inane 
expressions  of  sympathy,  the  cautious  words  of  a 
reporter  won  over  to  conceal  the  details  of  a  common- 
place vulgar  death  attacked  his  stomach.  Not 
merely  had  she  degraded  herself ;  she  had  degraded 
him.  He  saw  the  squalid  tract  of  her  vice,  miserable 
and     malodorous.     His     soul's     companion !     He 


A  PAINFUL  CASE  141 

thought  of  the  hobbling  wretches  whom  he  had  seen 
carrying  cans  and  bottles  to  be  filled  by  the  barman. 
Just  God,  what  an  end  !  Evidently  she  had  been 
unfit  to  live,  without  any  strength  of  purpose,  an 
easy  prey  to  habits,  one  of  the  wrecks  on  which 
civilisation  has  been  reared.  But  that  she  could 
have  sunk  so  low !  Was  it  possible  he  had  deceived 
himself  so  utterly  about  her  ?  He  remembered  her 
outburst  of  that  night  and  interpreted  it  in  a  harsher 
sense  than  he  had  ever  done.  He  had  no  difficulty 
now  in  approving  of  the  course  he  had  taken. 

As  the  light  failed  and  his  memory  began  to  wander 
he  thought  her  hand  touched  his.  The  shock  which 
had  first  attacked  his  stomach  was  now  attacking 
his  nerves.  He  put  on  his  overcoat  and  hat  quickly 
and  went  out.  The  cold  air  met  him  on  the  thres- 
hold ;  it  crept  into  the  sleeves  of  his  coat.  When 
he  came  to  the  public-house  at  Chapelizod  Bridge 
he  went  in  and  ordered  a  hot  punch. 

The  proprietor  served  him  obsequiously  but  did 
not  venture  to  talk.  There  were  five  or  six  working- 
men  in  the  shop  discussing  the  value  of  a  gentleman's 
estate  in  County  Kildare.  They  drank  at  intervals 
from  their  huge  pint  tumblers  and  smoked,  spitting 
often  on  the  floor  and  sometimes  dragging  the 
sawdust  over  their  spits  with  their  heavy  boots. 
Mr  Duffy  sat  on  his  stool  and  gazed  at  them,  without 
seeing  or  hearing  them.  After  a  while  they  went  out 
and  he  called  for  another  punch.  He  sat  a  long  time 
over  it.  The  shop  was  very  quiet.  The  proprietor 
sprawled  on  the  counter  reading  the  Herald  and 


142  DUBLINERS 

yawning.  Now  and  again  a  tram  was  heard  swishing 
along  the  lonely  road  outside. 

As  he  sat  there,  living  over  his  life  with  her  and 
evoking  alternately  the  two  images  in  which  he  now 
conceived  her,  he  realised  that  she  was  dead,  that  she 
had  ceased  to  exist,  that  she  had  become  a  memory. 
He  began  to  feel  ill  at  ease.  He  asked  himself  what 
else  could  he  have  done.  He  could  not  have  carried 
on  a  comedy  of  deception  with  her  ;  he  could  not  have 
lived  with  her  openly.  He  had  done  what  seemed 
to  him  best.  How  was  he  to  blame  ?  Now  that  she 
was  gone  he  understood  how  lonely  her  life  must 
have  been,  sitting  night  after  night  alone  in  that 
room.  His  life  would  be  lonely  too  until  he,  too, 
died,  ceased  to  exist,  became  a  memory — if  any- 
one remembered  him. 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  he  left  the  shop. 
The  night  was  cold  and  gloomy.  He  entered  the 
Park  by  the  first  gate  and  walked  along  under  the 
gaunt  trees.  He  walked  through  the  bleak  alleys 
where  they  had  walked  four  years  before.  She 
seemed  to  be  near  him  in  the  darkness.  At  moments 
he  seemed  f o  feel  her  voice  touch  his  ear,  her  hand 
touch  his.  He  stood  still  to  listen.  Why  had  he 
withheld  life  from  her  ?  Why  had  he  sentenced  her 
to  death  ?    He  felt  his  moral  nature  falling  to  pieces. 

When  he  gained  the  crest  of  the  Magazine  Hill  he 
halted  and  looked  along  the  river  towards  Dublin, 
the  lights  of  which  burned  redly  and  hospitably  in 
the  cold  night.  He  looked  down  the  slope  and,  at 
the  base,  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  of  the  Park, 


A  PAINFUL  CASE  143 

he  saw  some  human  figures  lying.  Those  venal  and 
furtive  loves  filled  him  with  despair.  He  gnawed 
the  rectitude  of  his  life ;  he  felt  that  he  had  been 
outcast  from  life's  feast.  One  human  being  had 
seemed  to  love  him  and  he  had  denied  her  life 
and  happiness :  he  had  sentenced  her  to  ignominy, 
a  death  of  shame.  He  knew  that  the  prostrate 
creatures  down  by  the  wall  were  watching  him  and 
wished  him  gone.  No  one  wanted  him ;  he  was 
outcast  from  life's  feast.  He  turned  his  eyes  to  the 
grey  gleaming  river,  winding  along  towards  Dublin. 
Beyond  the  river  he  saw  a  goods  train  winding  out  of 
Kingsbridge  Station,  like  a  worm  with  a  fiery  head 
winding  through  the  darkness,  obstinately  and 
laboriously.  It  passed  slowly  out  of  sight ;  but  still 
he  heard  in  his  ears  the  laborious  drone  of  the  engine 
reiterating  the  syllables  of  her  name. 

He  turned  back  the  way  he  had  come,  the  rhythm 
of  the  engine  pounding  in  his  ears.  He  began  to 
doubt  the  reality  of  what  memory  told  him.  He 
halted  under  a  tree  and  allowed  the  rhythm  to  die 
away.  He  could  not  feel  her  near  him  in  the  dark- 
ness nor  her  voice  touch  his  ear.  He  waited  for 
some  minutes  listening.  He  could  hear  nothing : 
the  night  was  perfectly  silent.  He  listened  again  : 
perfectly  silent.    He  felt  that  he  was  alone. 


IVY   DAY    IN   THE    COMMITTEE 
ROOM 

Old  Jack  raked  the  cinders  together  with  a  piece 
of  cardboard  and  spread  them  judiciously  over  the 
whitening  dome  of  coals.  When  the  dome  was 
thinly  covered  his  face  lapsed  into  darkness  but,  as 
he  set  himself  to  fan  the  fire  again,  his  crouching 
shadow  ascended  the  opposite  wall  and  his  face 
slowly  re-emerged  into  light.  It  was  an  old  man's 
face,  very  bony  and  hairy.  The  moist  blue  eyes 
blinked  at  the  fire  and  the  moist  mouth  fell  open 
at  times,  munching  once  or  twice  mechanically  when 
it  closed.  When  the  cinders  had  caught  he  laid  the 
piece  of  cardboard  against  the  wall,  sighed  and  said  : 

4  That's  better  now,  Mr  O'Connor.' 

Mr  O'Connor,  a  grey-haired  young  man,  whose 
face  was  disfigured  by  many  blotches  and  pimples, 
had  just  brought  the  tobacco  for  a  cigarette  into  a 
shapely  cylinder  but  when  spoken  to  he  undid  his 
handiwork  meditatively.  Then  he  began  to  roll  the 
tobacco  again  meditatively  and  after  a  moment's 
thought  decided  to  lick  the  paper. 

•  Did  Mr  Tierney  say  when  he'd  be  back  ?  '  he 
asked  in  a  husky  falsetto. 

4  He  didn't  say.' 

Mr  O'Connor  put  his  cigarette  into  his  mouth  and 

144 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  145 

began  to  search  his  pockets.  He  took  out  a  pack  of 
thin  pasteboard  cards. 

4  I'll  get  you  a  match,'  said  the  old  man. 

4  Never  mind,  this'll  do,'  said  Mr  O'Connor. 

He  selected  one  of  the  cards  and  read  what  was 
printed  on  it : 

MUNICIPAL  ELECTIONS 


Royal  Exchange  Ward 


Mr  Richard  J.  Tierney,  P.L.G.,  respectfully  solicits 
the  favour  of  your  vote  and  influence  at  the 
coming  election  in  the  Royal  Exchange  Ward 


Mr  O'Connor  had  been  engaged  by  Tierney's 
agent  to  canvass  one  part  of  the  ward  but,  as  the 
weather  was  inclement  and  his  boots  let  in  the  wet, 
he  spent  a  great  part  of  the  day  sitting  by  the  fire  in 
the  Committee  Room  in  Wicklow  Street  with  Jack, 
the  old  caretaker.  They  had  been  sitting  thus  since 
the  short  day  had  grown  dark.  It  was  the  sixth  of 
October,  dismal  and  cold  out  of  doors. 

Mr  O'Connor  tore  a  strip  off  the  card  and, 
lighting  it,  lit  his  cigarette.  As  he  did  so  the  flame 
lit  up  a  leaf  of  dark  glossy  ivy  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 
The  old  man  watched  him  attentively  and  then, 
taking  up  the  piece  of  cardboard  again,  began  to  fan 
the  fire  slowly  while  his  companion  smoked. 

1  Ah,  yes,'  he  said,  continuing,  *  it's  hard  to  know 
what  way  to  bring  up  children.     Now  who'd  think 

K 


146  DUBLINERS 

he'd  turn  out  like  that !  I  sent  him  to  the  Christian 
Brothers  and  I  done  what  I  could  for  him,  and  there 
he  goes  boosing  about.  I  tried  to  make  him  someway 
decent.' 

He  replaced  the  cardboard  wearily. 

4  Only  I'm  an  old  man  now  I'd  change  his  tune 
for  him.  I'd  take  the  stick  to  his  back  and  beat  him 
while  I  could  stand  over  him — as  I  done  many  a  time 
before.  The  mother,  you  know,  she  cocks  him  up 
with  this  and  that.  .  .  .' 

4  That's  what  ruins  children,'  said  Mr  O'Connor. 

4  To  be  sure  it  is,'  said  the  old  man.  And  little 
thanks  you  get  for  it,  only  impudence.  He  takes 
th'upper  hand  of  me  whenever  he  sees  I've  a  sup 
taken.  What's  the  world  coming  to  when  sons 
speaks  that  way  to  their  father  ?  ' 

4  What  age  is  he  ?  '   said  Mr  O'Connor. 

4  Nineteen,'  said  the  old  man. 

4  Why  don't  you  put  him  to  something  ?  ' 

4  Sure,  amn't  I  never  done  at  the  drunken  bowsy 
ever  since  he  left  school  ?  "I  won't  keep  you,"  I  says. 
"You  must  get  a  job  for  yourself."  But,  sure,  it's 
worse  whenever  he  gets  a  job  ;  he  drinks  it  all.' 

Mr  O'Connor  shook  his  head  in  sympathy,  and  the 
old  man  fell  silent,  gazing  into  the  fire.  Someone 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  and  called  out : 

4  Hello  !     Is  this  a  Freemasons'  meeting  ? ' 

4  Who's  that  ?  '  said  the  old  man. 

4  What  are  you  doing  in  the  dark  ?  '  asked  a 
voice. 

4  Is  that  you,  Hynes  ?  '  asked  Mr  O'Connor. 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  147 

4  Yes.  What  are  you  doing  in  the  dark  ? '  said  Mr 
Hynes,  advancing  into  the  light  of  the  fire. 

He  was  a  tall  slender  young  man  with  a  light 
brown  moustache.  Imminent  little  drops  of  rain 
hung  at  the  brim  of  his  hat  and  the  collar  of  his 
jacket-coat  was  turned  up. 

4  Well,  Mat,'  he  said  to  Mr  O'Connor, '  how  goes  it  ? ' 

Mr  O'Connor  shook  his  head.  The  old  man  left 
the  hearth  and,  after  stumbling  about  the  room 
returned  with  two  candlesticks  which  he  thrust  one 
after  the  other  into  the  fire  and  carried  to  the  table. 
A  denuded  room  came  into  view  and  the  fire  lost  all 
its  cheerful  colour.  The  walls  of  the  room  were  bare 
except  for  a  copy  of  an  election  address.  In  the 
middle  of  the  room  was  a  small  table  on  which  papers 
were  heaped. 

Mr  Hynes  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece  and 
asked  : 

1  Has  he  paid  you  yet  ?  ' 

4  Not  yet,'  said  Mr  O'Connor.  *  I  hope  to  God 
he'll  not  leave  us  in  the  lurch  to-night.' 

Mr  Hynes  laughed. 

4  O,  he'll  pay  you.    Never  fear,'  he  said. 

4 1  hope  he'll  look  smart  about  it  if  he  means 
business,'  said  Mr  O'Connor. 

4  What  do  you  think,  Jack  ?  '  said  Mr  Hynes 
satirically  to  the  old  man. 

The  old  man  returned  to  his  seat  by  the  fire, 
saying  : 

4  It  isn't  but  he  has  it,  anyway.  Not  like  the  other 
tinker.' 


148  DUBLINERS 

4  What  other  tinker  ?  '  said  Mr  Hynes. 
4  Colgan,'  said  the  old  man  scornfully. 

I  Is  it  because  Colgan' s  a  working-man  you  say 
that  ?  What's  the  difference  between  a  good  honest 
bricklayer  and  a  publican — eh  ?  Hasn't  the 
working-man  as  good  a  right  to  be  in  the  Corporation 
as  anyone  else — ay,  and  a  better  right  than  those 
shoneens  that  are  always  hat  in  hand  before  any 
fellow  with  a  handle  to  his  name  ?  Isn't  that  so, 
Mat  ?  '  said  Mr  Hynes,  addressing  Mr  O'Connor. 

I I  think  you're  right,'  said  Mr  O'Connor. 

4  One  man  is  a  plain  honest  man  with  no  hunker- 
sliding  about  him.  He  goes  in  to  represent  the 
labour  classes.  This  fellow  you're  working  for  only 
wants  to  get  some  job  or  other.' 

4  Of  course,  the  working-classes  should  be  repre- 
sented,' said  the  old  man. 

4  The  working-man,'  said  Mr  Hynes,  4  gets  all 
kicks  and  no  halfpence.  But  it's  labour  produces 
everything.  The  working-man  is  not  looking  for  fat 
jobs  for  his  sons  and  nephews  and  cousins.  The 
working-man  is  not  going  to  drag  the  honour  of 
Dublin  in  the  mud  to  please  a  German  monarch.' 

4  How's  that  ?  '  said  the  old  man. 

4  Don't  you  know  they  want  to  present  an  address 
of  welcome  to  Edward  Rex  if  he  comes  here  next 
year  ?  What  do  we  want  kowtowing  to  a  foreign 
king  ?  ' 

4  Our  man  won't  vote  for  the  address,'  said  Mr 
O'Connor.     4  He  goes  in  on  the  Nationalist  ticket.' 

4  Won't  he  ? '  said  Mr  Hynes.     4  Wait  till  you  see 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  149 

whether  he  will  or  not.  I  know  him.  Is  it  Tricky 
Dicky  Tierney  ? ' 

4  By  God !  perhaps  you're  right,  Joe,'  said  Mr 
O'Connor.  '  Anyway,  I  wish  he'd  turn  up  with  the 
spondulics.' 

The  three  men  fell  silent.  The  old  man  began  to 
rake  more  cinders  together.  Mr  Hynes  took  off  his 
hat,  shook  it  and  then  turned  down  the  collar  of  his 
coat,  displaying,  as  he  did  so,  an  ivy  leaf  in  the  lapel. 

4  If  this  man  was  alive,'  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
leaf,  *  we'd  have  no  talk  of  an  address  of  welcome.' 

4  That's  true,'  said  Mr  O'Connor. 

4  Musha,  God  be  with  them  times  ! '  said  the  old 
man.     'There  was  some  life  in  it  then.' 

The  room  was  silent  again.  Then  a  bustling  little 
man  with  a  snuffling  nose  and  very  cold  ears  pushed 
in  the  door.  He  walked  over  quickly  to  the  fire, 
rubbing  his  hands  as  if  he  intended  to  produce  a 
spark  from  them. 

4  No  money,  boys,'  he  said. 

4  Sit  down  here,  Mr  Henchy,'  said  the  old  man, 
offering  him  his  chair. 

4  O,  don't  stir,  Jack,  don't  stir,'  said  Mr  Henchy. 

He  nodded  curtly  to  Mr  Hynes  and  sat  down  on 
the  chair  which  the  old  man  vacated. 

4  Did  you  serve  Aungier  Street  ?  '  he  asked  Mr 
O'Connor. 

4  Yes,'  said  Mr  O'Connor,  beginning  to  search  his 
pockets  for  memoranda. 

4  Did  you  call  on  Grimes  ?  ' 

4 1  did.' 


150  DUBLINERS 

'  Well  ?    How  does  he  stand  ?  ' 

4  He  wouldn't  promise.  He  said  :  "I  won't  tell 
anyone  what  way  I'm  going  to  vote."  But  I  think 
he'll  be  all  right.' 

4  Why  so  ?  ' 

1  He  asked  me  who  the  nominators  were  ;  and  I  told 
him.  I  mentioned  Father  Burke's  name.  I  think 
it'll  be  all  right.' 

Mr  Henchy  began  to  snuffle  and  to  rub  his  hands 
over  the  fire  at  a  terrific  speed.     Then  he  said  : 

4  For  the  love  of  God,  Jack,  bring  us  a  bit  of  coal. 
There  must  be  some  left.' 

The  old  man  went  out  of  the  room. 

4  It's  no  go,'  said  Mr  Henchy,  shaking  his  head. 
'I  asked  the  little  shoeboy,  but  he  said  :  "  O,  now, 
Mr  Henchy,  when  I  see  the  work  going  on  properly 
I  won't  forget  you,  you  may  be  sure."  Mean  little 
tinker  !     '  Usha,  how  could  he  be  anything  else  ?  ' 

4  What  did  I  tell  you,  Mat  ?  '  said  Mr  Hynes. 
4  Tricky  Dicky  Tierney.' 

4  O,  he's  as  tricky  as  they  make  'em,'  said  Mr 
Henchy.  4  He  hasn't  got  those  little  pigs'  eyes  for 
nothing.  Blast  his  soul !  Couldn't  he  pay  up  like 
a  man  instead  of  :  "  O,  now,  Mr  Henchy,  I  must 
speak  to  Mr  Fanning.  .  .  .  I've  spent  a  lot  of 
money  "  ?  Mean  little  shoeboy  of  hell !  I  suppose 
he  forgets  the  time  his  little  old  father  kept  the 
hand-me-down  shop  in  Mary's  Lane.' 

*  But  is  that  a  fact  ?  '  asked  Mr  O'Connor. 

1  God,  yes,'  said  Mr  Henchy.  '  Did  you  never 
hear  that  ?    And  the  men  used  to  go  in  on  Sunday 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  151 

morning  before  the  houses  were  open  to  buy  a  waist- 
coat or  a  trousers — moya  !  But  Tricky  Dicky's 
little  old  father  always  had  a  tricky  little  black  bottle 
up  in  a  corner.  Do  you  mind  now  ?  That's  that. 
That's  where  he  first  saw  the  light.' 

The  old  man  returned  with  a  few  lumps  of  coal 
which  he  placed  here  and  there  on  the  fire. 

4  That's  a  nice  how-do-you-do,'  said  Mr  O'Connor. 
4  How  does  he  expect  us  to  work  for  him  if  he  won't 
stump  up  ?  ' 

4 1  can't  help  it,'  said  Mr  Henchy.  'I  expect  to 
find  the  bailiffs  in  the  hall  when  I  go  home.' 

Mr  Hynes  laughed  and,  shoving  himself  away 
from  the  mantelpiece  with  the  aid  of  his  shoulders, 
made  ready  to  leave. 

4  It'll  be  all  right  when  King  Eddie  comes,'  he  said. 
4  Well,  boys,  I'm  off  for  the  present.  See  you  later. 
'Bye,  'bye.' 

He  went  out  of  the  room  slowly.  Neither  Mr 
Henchy  nor  the  old  man  said  anything  but,  just  as 
the  door  was  closing,  Mr  O'Connor  who  had  been 
staring  moodily  into  the  fire,  called  out  suddenly  : 

4  'Bye,  Joe.' 

Mr  Henchy  waited  a  few  moments  and  then 
nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  door. 

4  Tell  me,'  he  said  across  the  fire,  '  what  brings  our 
friend  in  here  ?    What  does  he  want  ?  ' 

4  'Usha,  poor  Joe  ! '  said  Mr  O'Connor,  throwing 
the  end  of  his  cigarette  into  the  fire,  4  he's  hard  up 
like  the  rest  of  us.' 

Mr  Henchy  snuffled  vigorously  and  spat  so  copiously 


152  DUBLINERS 

that  he  nearly  put  out  the  fire  which  uttered  a 
hissing  protest. 

4  To  tell  you  my  private  and  candid  opinion,'  he 
said, '  I  think  he's  a  man  from  the  other  camp.  He's 
a  spy  of  Colgan's  if  you  ask  me.  "  Just  go  round  and 
try  and  find  out  how  they're  getting  on.  They  won't 
suspect  you."    Do  you  twig  ?  ' 

'  Ah,  poor  Joe  is  a  decent  skin,'  said  Mr  O'Connor. 

4  His  father  was  a  decent  respectable  man,'  Mr 
Henchy  admitted.  '  Poor  old  Larry  Hynes !  Many 
a  good  turn  he  did  in  his  day  !  But  I'm  greatly 
afraid  our  friend  is  not  nineteen  carat.  Damn  it, 
I  can  understand  a  fellow  being  hard  up  but  what 
I  can't  understand  is  a  fellow  sponging.  Couldn't 
he  have  some  spark  of  manhood  about  him  ?  ' 

'  He  doesn  't  get  a  warm  welcome  from  me 
when  he  comes,'  said  the  old  man.  'Let  him  work 
for  his  own  side  and  not  come  spying  around 
here.' 

'I  don't  know,'  said  Mr  O'Connor  dubiously,  as 
he  took  out  cigarette-papers  and  tobacco.  '  I  think 
Joe  Hynes  is  a  straight  man.  He's  a  clever  chap, 
too,  with  the  pen.  Do  you  remember  that  thing  he 
wrote  .  .  .  ?  ' 

'  Some  of  these  hillsiders  and  f  enians  are  a  bit  too 
clever  if  you  ask  me,'  said  Mr  Henchy.  '  Do  you 
know  what  my  private  and  candid  opinion  is  about 
some  of  those  little  jokers  ?  I  believe  half  of  them 
are  in  the  pay  of  the  Castle.' 

4  There's  no  knowing,'  said  the  old  man. 

1  O,  but  I  know  it  for  a  fact,'  said  Mr  Henchy. 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  153 

4  They're  Castle  hacks.  ...  I  don't  say  Hynes.  .  .  . 
No,  damn  it,  I  think  he's  a  stroke  above  that.  .  .  r 
But  there's  a  certain  little  nobleman  with  a  cock-eye 
— you  know  the  patriot  I'm  alluding  to  ?  ' 

Mr  O'Connor  nodded. 

4  There's  a  lineal  descendant  of  Major  Sirr  for  you 
if  you  like !  O,  the  heart's  blood  of  a  patriot !  That's  a 
fellow  now  that'd  sell  his  country  for  f ourpence — ay 
— and  go  down  on  his  bended  knees  and  thank  the 
Almighty  Christ  he  had  a  country  to  sell.' 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

1  Come  in  ! '  said  Mr  Henchy. 

A  person  resembling  a  poor  clergyman  or  a  poor 
actor  appeared  in  the  doorway.  His  black  clothes 
were  tightly  buttoned  on  his  short  body  and  it  was 
impossible  to  say  whether  he  wore  a  clergyman's 
collar  or  a  layman's  because  the  collar  of  his  shabby 
frock-coat,  the  uncovered  buttons  of  which  reflected 
the  candlelight,  was  turned  up  about  his  neck.  He 
wore  a  round  hat  of  hard  black  felt.  His  face, 
shining  with  raindrops,  had  the  appearance  of  damp 
yellow  cheese  save  where  two  rosy  spots  indicated 
the  cheek-bones.  He  opened  his  very  long  mouth 
suddenly  to  express  disappointment  and  at  the  same 
time  opened  wide  his  very  bright  blue  eyes  to  express 
pleasure  and  surprise. 

4  O,  Father  Keon  I' '  said  Mr  Henchy,  jumping 
up  from  his  chair.     4  Is  that  you  ?    Come  in  ! ' 

4  O,  no,  no,  no ! '  said  Father  Keon  quickly, 
pursing  his  lips  as  if  he  were  addressing  a  child. 

4  Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down  ?  ' 


154  DUBLINERS 

4  No,  no,  no  ! '  said  Father  Keon,  speaking  in 
a  discreet  indulgent  velvety  voice.  4  Don't  let 
me  disturb  you  now !  I'm  just  looking  for  Mr 
Fanning.  .  .  .' 

1  He's  round  at  the  Black  Eagle,'  said  Mr  Henchy. 
4  But  won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down  a  minute  ?  ' 

4  No,  no,  thank  you.  It  was  just  a  little  business 
matter,'  said  Father  Keon.     4  Thank  you,  indeed.' 

He  retreated  from  the  doorway  and  Mr  Henchy, 
seizing  one  of  the  candlesticks,  went  to  the  door  to 
light  him  downstairs. 

8  O,  don't  trouble,  I  beg  I ' 

1  No,  but  the  stairs  is  so  dark.' 

4  No,  no,  I  can  see.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  indeed.' 

4  Are  you  right  now  ?  ' 

6  All  right,  thanks.  .  .  .  Thanks.' 

Mr  Henchy  returned  with  the  candlestick  and 
put  it  on  the  table.  He  sat  down  again  at  the 
fire.     There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

4  Tell  me,  John,'  said  Mr  O'Connor,  lighting  his 
cigarette  with  another  pasteboard  card. 

4Hm?' 

4  What  is  he  exactly  ?  ' 

4  Ask  me  an  easier  one,'  said  Mr  Henchy. 

4  Fanning  and  himself  seem  to  me  very  thick. 
They're  often  in  Kavanagh's  together.  Is  he  a  priest 
at  all  ?  ' 

4  'Mmmyes,  I  believe  so.  ...  I  think  he's  what 
you  call  a  black  sheep.  We  haven't  many  of  them, 
thank  God!  but  we  have  a  few.  .  .  .  He's  an 
unfortunate  man  of  some  kind.  .  .  .' 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  155 

4  And  how  does  he  knock  it  out  ?  '  asked  Mr 
O'Connor. 

4  That's  another  mystery.' 

1  Is  he  attached  to  any  chapel  or  church  or 
institution  or ' 

4  No,'  said  Mr  Henchy,  '  I  think  he's  travelling  on 
his  own  account.  .  .  .  God  forgive  me,'  he  added, 
4 1  thought  he  was  the  dozen  of  stout.' 

4  Is  there  any  chance  of  a  drink  itself  ?  '  asked 
Mr  O'Connor. 

4  I'm  dry  too,'  said  the  old  man. 

4 1  asked  that  little  shoeboy  three  times,'  said 
Mr  Henchy,  4  would  he  send  up  a  dozen  of  stout. 
I  asked  him  again  now  but  he  was  leaning  on  the 
counter  in  his  shirt-sleeves  having  a  deep  goster  with 
Alderman  Cowley.' 

4  Why  didn't  you  remind  him  ?  '  asid  Mr  O'Connor. 

4  Well,  I  couldn't  go  over  while  he  was  talking  to 
Alderman  Cowley.  I  just  waited  till  I  caught  his 
eye,  and  said  :  "  About  that  little  matter  I  was 
speaking  to  you  about.  ..."  "That'll  be  all  right, 
Mr  H.,"  he  said.  Yerra,  sure  the  little  hop-o'-my- 
thumb  has  forgotten  all  about  it.' 

4  There's  some  deal  on  in  that  quarter,'  said 
Mr  O'Connor  thoughtfully.  'I  saw  the  three 
of  them  hard  at  it  yesterday  at  Suffolk  Street 
corner.' 

4 1  think  I  know  the  little  game  they're  at,'  said 
Mr  Henchy.  4  You  must  owe  the  City  Fathers  money 
nowadays  if  you  want  to  be  made  Lord  Mayor. 
Then  they'll  make  you  Lord  Mayor.    By  God !  I'm 


156  DUBLINERS 

thinking  seriously  of  becoming  a  City  Father  my- 
self. What  do  you  think  ?  Would  I  do  for  the 
job  ?  ' 

Mr  O'Connor  laughed. 

'  So  far  as  owing  money  goes.  .  .  .' 

'  Driving  out  of  the  Mansion  House,'  said  Mr 
Henchy, 4  in  all  my  vermin,  with  Jack  here  standing 
up  behind  me  in  a  powdered  wig — eh  ?  ' 

'  And  make  me  your  private  secretary,  John.' 

4  Yes.  And  I'll  make  Father  Keon  my  private 
chaplain.     We'll  have  a  family  party.' 

1  Faith,  Mr  Henchy,'  said  the  old  man, 4  you'd  keep 
up  better  style  than  some  of  them.  I  was  talking 
one  day  to  old  Keegan,  the  porter.  *  *  And  how  do  you 
like  your  new  master,  Pat  ?  "  says  I  to  him.  "  You 
haven't  much  entertaining  now,"  says  I.  "  Enter- 
taining !  "  says  he.  "  He'd  live  on  the  smell  of  an 
oil-rag."  And  do  you  know  what  he  told  me  ? 
Now,  I  declare  to  God,  I  didn't  believe  him.' 

1  What  ?  '  said  Mr  Henchy  and  Mr  O'Connor. 

1  He  told  me :  "  What  do  you  think  of  a  Lord  Mayor 
of  Dublin  sending  out  for  a  pound  of  chops  for  his 
dinner  ?  How's  that  for  high  living  ?  "  says  he. 
44  Wisha  !  wisha,"  says  I.  "A  pound  of  chops," 
says  he,  "  coming  into  the  Mansion  House." 
"  Wisha  !  "  says  I,  "  what  kind  of  people  is  going  at 
all  now  ?  "  ' 

At  this  point  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
a  boy  put  in  his  head. 

1  What  is  it  ?  '   said  the  old  man. 

4  From  the  Black  Eagle,'  said  the  boy,  walking  in 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  157 

sideways  and  depositing  a  basket  on  the  floor  with 
a  noise  of  shaken  bottles. 

The  old  man  helped  the  boy  to  transfer  the  bottles 
from  the  basket  to  the  table  and  counted  the  full 
tally.  After  the  transfer  the  boy  put  his  basket  on 
his  arm  and  asked  : 

4  Any  bottles  ?  ' 

4  What  bottles  ?  '  said  the  old  man. 

4  Won't  you  let  us  drink  them  first  ?  '  said  Mr 
Henchy. 

8 1  was  told  to  ask  for  bottles.' 

4  Come  back  to-morrow,'  said  the  old  man. 

4  Here,  boy  ! '  said  Mr  Henchy, 4  will  you  run  over 
to  O'Farrell's  and  ask  him  to  lend  us  a  corkscrew 
— for  Mr  Henchy,  say.  Tell  him  we  won't  keep  it  a 
minute.     Leave  the  basket  there.' 

The  boy  went  out  and  Mr  Henchy  began  to  rub  his 
hands  cheerfully,  saying  : 

4  Ah,  well,  he's  not  so  bad  after  all.  He's  as  good 
as  his  word,  anyhow.' 

4  There's  no  tumblers,'  said  the  old  man. 

4  O,  don't  let  that  trouble  you,  Jack,'  said  Mr 
Henchy.  4  Many's  the  good  man  before  now  drank 
out  of  the  bottle.' 

4  Anyway,  it's  better  than  nothing,'  said  Mr 
O'Connor. 

4  He's  not  a  bad  sort,'  said  Mr  Henchy,  *  only  Fan- 
ning has  such  a  loan  of  him.  He  means  well,  you 
know,  in  his  own  tinpot  way.' 

The  boy  came  back  with  the  corkscrew.  The 
old  man  opened  three   bottles   and  was  handing 


158  DUBLINERS 

back  the  corkscrew  when  Mr  Henchy  said  to  the 
boy. 

4  Would  you  like  a  drink,  boy  ?  ' 

1  If  you  please,  sir,'  said  the  boy. 

The  old  man  opened  another  bottle  grudgingly, 
and  handed  it  to  the  boy. 

4  What  age  are  you  ?  ■  he  asked. 

*  Seventeen,'  said  the  boy. 

As  the  old  man  said  nothing  further  the  boy  took 
the  bottle,  said  :  4  Here's  my  best  respects,  sir,  to 
Mr  Henchy,'  drank  the  contents,  put  the  bottle  back 
on  the  table  and  wiped  his  mouth  with  his  sleeve. 
Then  he  took  up  the  corkscrew  and  went  out  of  the 
door  sideways,  muttering  some  form  of  salutation. 

4  That's  the  way  it  begins,'  said  the  old  man. 

4  The  thin  end  of  the  wedge,'  said  Mr  Henchy. 

The  old  man  distributed  the  three  bottles  which 
he  had  opened  and  the  men  drank  from  them 
simultaneously.  After  having  drank  each  placed 
his  bottle  on  the  mantelpiece  within  hand's  reach 
and  drew  in  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction. 

4  Well,  I  did  a  good  day's  work  to-day,'  said  Mr 
Henchy,  after  a  pause. 

4  That  so,  John  ?  ' 

4  Yes.  I  got  him  one  or  two  sure  things  in  Dawson 
Street,  Crofton  and  myself.  Between  ourselves, 
you  know,  Crofton  (he's  a  decent  chap,  of  course), 
but  he's  not  worth  a  damn  as  a  canvasser.  He  hasn't 
a  word  to  throw  to  a  dog.  He  stands  and  looks  at 
the  people  while  I  do  the  talking.' 

Here  two  men  entered  the  room.     One  of  them  was 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  159 

a  very  fat  man,  whose  blue  serge  clothes  seemed  to 
be  in  danger  of  falling  from  his  sloping  figure.  He 
had  a  big  face  which  resembled  a  young  ox's  face  in 
expression,  staring  blue  eyes  and  a  grizzled  moustache. 
The  other  man,  who  was  much  younger  and  frailer, 
had  a  thin  clean-shaven  face.  He  wore  a  very  high 
double  collar  and  a  wide-brimmed  bowler  hat. 

4  Hello,  Crof ton  ! '  said  Mr  Henchy  to  the  fat 
man.     '  Talk  of  the  devil.  .  .  .' 

1  Where  did  the  boose  come  from  ?  '  asked  the 
young  man.     '  Did  the  cow  calve  ?  ' 

1  O,  of  course,  Lyons  spots  the  drink  first  thing ! ' 
said  Mr  O'Connor,  laughing. 

4  Is  that  the  way  you  chaps  canvass,'  said  Mr 
Lyons,  4  and  Crof  ton  and  I  out  in  the  cold  and  rain 
looking  for  votes  ?  ' 

4  Why,  blast  your  soul,'  said  Mr  Henchy,  4  I'd  get 
more  votes  in  five  minutes  than  you  two'd  get  in  a 
week.' 

4  Open  two  bottles  of  stout,  Jack,'  said  Mr 
O'Connor. 

4  How  can  I  ?  '  said  the  old  man,  4  when  there's 
no  corkscrew  ?  ' 

4  Wait  now,  wait  now  ! '  said  Mr  Henchy,  getting 
up  quickly.     4  Did  you  ever  see  this  little  trick  ?  ' 

He  took  two  bottles  from  the  table  and,  carrying 
them  to  the  fire,  put  them  on  the  hob.  Then  he  sat 
down  again  by  the  fire  and  took  another  drink  from 
his  bottle.  Mr  Lyons  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table, 
pushed  his  hat  towards  the  nape  of  his  neck  and 
began  to  swing  his  legs. 


160  DUBLINERS 

4  Which  is  my  bottle  ?  '  he  asked. 

4  This  lad,'  said  Mr  Henchy. 

Mr  Crofton  sat  down  on  a  box  and  looked  fixedly 
at  the  other  bottle  on  the  hob.  He  was  silent  for 
two  reasons.  The  first  reason,  sufficient  in  itself, 
was  that  he  had  nothing  to  say  ;  the  second  reason 
was  that  he  considered  his  companions  beneath 
him.  He  had  been  a  canvasser  for  Wilkins,  the 
Conservative,  but  when  the  Conservatives  had 
withdrawn  their  man  and,  choosing  the  lesser  of 
two  evils,  given  their  support  to  the  Nationalist 
candidate,  he  had  been  engaged  to  work  for  Mr 
Tierney. 

In  a  few  minutes  an  apologetic  4  Pok ! '  was  heard 
as  the  cork  flew  out  of  Mr  Lyons'  bottle.  Mr  Lyons 
jumped  off  the  table,  went  to  the  fire,  took  his  bottle 
and  carried  it  back  to  the  table. 

4  I  was  just  telling  them,  Crofton,'  said  Mr  Henchy, 
4  that  we  got  a  good  few  votes  to-day.' 

4  Who  did  you  get  ?  '  asked  Mr  Lyons. 

4  Well,  I  got  Parkes  for  one,  and  I  got  Atkinson 
for  two,  and  I  got  Ward  of  Dawson  Street.  Fine  old 
chap  he  is,  too — regular  old  toff,  old  Conservative  I 
44  But  isn't  your  candidate  a  Nationalist  ?  "  said  he. 
44  He's  a  respectable  man,"  said  I.  44  He's  in  favour 
of  whatever  will  benefit  this  country.  He's  a  big 
ratepayer,"  I  said.  44He  has  extensive  house 
property  in  the  city  and  three  places  of  business  and 
isn't  it  to  his  own  advantage  to  keep  down  the  rates  ? 
He's  a  prominent  and  respected  citizen,"  said  1, 44  and 
a  Poor  Law  Guardian,  and  he  doesn't  belong  to  any 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  161 

party,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent."  That's  the  way 
to  talk  to  'em.' 

4  And  what  about  the  address  to  the  King  ?  '  said 
Mr  Lyons,  after  drinking  and  smacking  his  lips. 

1  Listen  to  me,'  said  Mr  Henchy,  '  What  we 
want  in  this  country,  as  I  said  to  old  Ward,  is  capital. 
The  King's  coming  here  will  mean  an  influx  of  money 
into  this  country.  The  citizens  of  Dublin  will  benefit 
by  it.  Look  at  all  the  factories  down  by  the  quays 
there,  idle !  Look  at  all  the  money  there  is  in  the 
country  if  we  only  worked  the  old  industries,  the 
mills,  the  shipbuilding  yards  and  factories.  It's 
capital  we  want.' 

'  But  look  here,  John,'  said  Mr  O'Connor.  ■  Why 
should  we  welcome  the  King  of  England  ?  Didn't 
Parnell  himself  .  .  .' 

1  Parnell,'  said  Mr  Henchy,  '  is  dead.  Now, 
here's  the  way  I  look  at  it.  Here's  this  chap  come 
to  the  throne  after  his  old  mother  keeping  him  out  of 
it  till  the  man  was  grey.  He's  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
he  means  well  by  us.  He's  a  jolly  fine  decent  fellow, 
if  you  ask  me,  and  no  damn  nonsense  about  him. 
He  just  says  to  himself  :  "  The  old  one  never  went 
to  see  these  wild  Irish.  By  Christ,  I'll  go  myself  and 
see  what  they're  like."  And  are  we  going  to  insult 
the  man  when  he  comes  over  here  on  a  friendly  visit  ? 
Eh  ?    Isn't  that  right,  Crofton  ?  ' 

Mr  Crofton  nodded  his  head. 

'  But  after  all  now,'  said  Mr  Lyons  argumenta- 
tively,  '  King  Edward's  life,  you  know,  is  not  the 
very  .  .  .' 

L 


162  DUBLINERS 

4  Let  bygones  be  bygones,'  said  Mr  Henchy.  *  I 
admire  the  man  personally.  He's  just  an  ordinary 
knockabout  like  you  and  me.  He's  fond  of  his  glass  of 
grog  and  he's  a  bit  of  a  rake,  perhaps,  and  he's  a  good 
sportsman.     Damn  it,  can't  we  Irish  play  fair  ?  ' 

4  That's  all  very  fine,'  said  Mr  Lyons.  'But  look 
at  the  case  of  Parnell  now.' 

4  In  the  name  of  God,'  said  Mr  Henchy,  4  where's 
the  analogy  between  the  two  cases  ?  ' 

1  What  I  mean,'  said  Mr  Lyons,  4  is  we  have  our 
ideals.  Why,  now,  would  we  welcome  a  man  like 
that  ?  Do  you  think  now  after  what  he  did  Parnell 
was  a  fit  man  to  lead  us  ?  And  why,  then,  would  we 
do  it  for  Edward  the  Seventh  ?  ' 

4  This  is  Parnell's  anniversary,'  said  Mr  O'Connor, 
and  don't  let  us  stir  up  any  bad  blood.  We  all 
respect  him  now  that  he's  dead  and  gone — even  the 
Conservatives,'  he  added,  turning  to  Mr  Crofton. 

Pok  !  The  tardy  cork  flew  out  of  Mr  Crofton' s 
bottle.  Mr  Crofton  got  up  from  his  box  and  went 
to  the  fire.  As  he  returned  with  his  capture  he  said 
in  a  deep  voice  : 

1  Our  side  of  the  house  respects  him,  because  he  was 
a  gentleman.' 

4  Right  you  are,  Crofton ! '  said  Mr  Henchy 
fiercely.  '  He  was  the  only  man  that  could  keep  that 
bag  of  cats  in  order.  44  Down,  ye  dogs  !  Lie  down, 
ye  curs  !  "  That's  the  way  he  treated  them.  Come 
in,  Joe !  Come  in ! '  he  called  out,  catching  sight  of 
Mr  Hynes  in  the  doorway. 

Mr  Hynes  came  in  slowly. 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  163 

1  Open  another  bottle  of  stout,  Jack,'  said  Mr 
Henchy.  '  O,  I  forgot  there's  no  corkscrew  !  Here, 
show  me  one  here  and  I'll  put  it  at  the  fire.' 

The  old  man  handed  him  another  bottle  and  he 
placed  it  on  the  hob. 

4  Sit  down,  Joe,'  said  Mr  O'Connor,  *  we're  just 
talking  about  the  Chief.' 

4  Ay,  ay  ! '  said  Mr  Henchy. 

Mr  Hynes  sat  on  the  side  of  the  table  near  Mr 
Lyons  but  said  nothing. 

4  There's  one  of  them,  anyhow,'  said  Mr  Henchy, 
4  that  didn't  renege  him.  By  God,  I'll  say  for  you, 
Joe  !    No,  by  God,  you  stuck  to  him  like  a  man  ! ' 

4  0,  Joe,'  said  Mr  O'Connor  suddenly.  4  Give  us 
that  thing  you  wrote — do  you  remember  ?  Have 
you  got  it  on  you  ?  ' 

4  O,  ay  ! '  said  Mr  Henchy.  4  Give  us  that. 
Did  you  ever  hear  that,  Crof  ton  ?  Listen  to  this  now : 
splendid  thing.' 

4  Go  on,'  said  Mr  O'Connor.     4  Fire  away,  Joe.' 

Mr  Hynes  did  not  seem  to  remember  at  once  the 
piece  to  which  they  were  alluding  but,  after  reflecting 
a  while,  he  said  : 

4  O,  that  thing  is  it.  .  .  .  Sure,  that's  old  now.' 

4  Out  with  it,  man  ! '   said  Mr  O'Connor. 

4  'Sh,  'sh,'  said  Mr  Henchy.     4  Now,  Joe  ! ' 

Mr  Hynes  hesitated  a  little  longer.  Then  amid 
the  silence  he  took  off  his  hat,  laid  it  on  the  table 
and  stood  up.  He  seemed  to  be  rehearsing  the  piece 
in  his  mind.    After  a  rather  long  pause  he  announced : 


164  DUBLINERS 

THE  DEATH  OF  PARNELL 

6th  October  1891 

He  cleared  his  throat  once  or  twice  and  then 
began  to  recite : 

He  is  dead.     Our  Uncrowned  King  is  dead. 

O,  Erin,  mourn  with  grief  and  woe 
For  he  lies  dead  whom  the  fell  gang 

Of  modern  hypocrites  laid  low. 

He  lies  slain  by  the  coward  hounds 

He  raised  to  glory  from  the  mire  ; 
And  Erin's  hopes  and  Erin's  dreams 

Perish  upon  her  monarch's  pyre. 

In  palace,  cabin  or  in  cot 

The  Irish  heart  where'er  it  be 
Is  bowed  with  woe — for  he  is  gone 

Who  would  have  wrought  her  destiny .- 

He  would  have  had  his  Erin  famed, 

The  green  flag  gloriously  unfurled, 
Her  statesmen,  bards  and  warriors  raised 

Before  the  nations  of  the  World. 

He  dreamed  (alas,  ?twas  but  a  dream  ! ) 

Of  Liberty  :  but  as  he  strove 
To  clutch  that  idol,  treachery 

Sundered  him  from  the  thing  he  loved. 

Shame  on  the  coward,  caitiff  hands 

That  smote  their  Lord  or  with  a  kiss 
Betrayed  him  to  the  rabble-rout 

Of  fawning  priests — no  friends  of  his. 

May  everlasting  shame  consume 

The  memory  of  those  who  tried 
To  befoul  and  smear  th'  exalted  name 

Of  one  who  spurned  them  in  his  pride.- 


IVY  DAY  IN  THE  COMMITTEE  ROOM  165 

He  fell  as  fall  the  mighty  ones, 

Nobly  undaunted  to  the  last, 
And  death  has  now  united  him 

With  Erin's  heroes  of  the  past. 

No  sound  of  strife  disturb  his  sleep  ! 

Calmly  he  rests  :  no  human  pain 
Or  high  ambition  spurs  him  now 

The  peaks  of  glory  to  attain. 

They  had  their  way  :  they  laid  him  low. 

But  Erin,  list,  his  spirit  may 
Rise,  like  the  Phoenix  from  the  flames, 

When  breaks  the  dawning  of  the  day, 

The  day  that  brings  us  Freedom's  reign. 

And  on  that  day  may  Erin  well 
Pledge  in  the  cup  she  lifts  to  Joy 

One  grief — the  memory  of  Parnell. 

Mr  Hynes  sat  down  again  on  the  table.  When  he 
had  finished  his  recitation  there  was  a  silence  and 
then  a  burst  of  clapping  :  even  Mr  Lyons  clapped. 
The  applause  continued  for  a  little  time.  When  it 
had  ceased  all  the  auditors  drank  from  their  bottles 
in  silence. 

Pok  !  The  cork  flew  out  of  Mr  Hynes'  bottle, 
but  Mr  Hynes  remained  sitting,  flushed  and  bare- 
headed on  the  table.  He  did  not  seem  to  have 
heard  the  invitation. 

4  Good  man,  Joe  ! '  said  Mr  O'Connor,  taking  out 
his  cigarette  papers  and  pouch  the  better  to  hide  his 
emotion. 

4  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Crof  ton  ?  '  cried  Mr 
Henchy.     '  Isn't  that  fine  ?   What  ?  ' 

Mr  Crofton  said  that  it  was  a  very  fine  piece  of 
writing. 


A  MOTHER 

Mr  Holohan,  assistant  secretary  of  the  Eire  Abu 
Society,  had  been  walking  up  and  down  Dublin  for 
nearly  a  month,  with  his  hands  and  pockets  full  of 
dirty  pieces  of  paper,  arranging  about  the  series 
of  concerts.  He  had  a  game  leg  and  for  this  his 
friends  called  him  Hoppy  Holohan.  He  walked 
up  and  down  constantly,  stood  by  the  hour  at 
street  corners  arguing  the  point  and  made  notes  ; 
but  in  the  end  it  was  Mrs  Kearney  who  arranged 
everything. 

Miss  Devlin  had  become  Mrs  Kearney  out  of  spite. 
She  had  been  educated  in  a  high-class  convent  where 
she  had  learned  French  and  music.  As  she  was 
naturally  pale  and  unbending  in  manner  she  made 
few  friends  at  school.  When  she  came  to  the  age  of 
marriage  she  was  sent  out  to  many  houses  where 
her  playing  and  her  ivory  manners  were  much 
admired.  She  sat  amid  the  chilly  circle  of  her 
accomplishments,  waiting  for  some  suitor  to  brave 
it  and  offer  her  a  brilliant  life.  But  the  young  men 
whom  she  met  were  ordinary  and  she  gave  them 
no  encouragement,  trying  to  console  her  romantic 
desires  by  eating  a  great  deal  of  Turkish  Delight 
in  secret.  However,  when  she  drew  near  the  limit 
and  her  friends  began  to  loosen  their  tongues  about 

166 


A  MOTHER  167 

her  she  silenced  them  by  marrying  Mr  Kearney,  who 
was  a  bootmaker  on  Ormond  Quay. 

He  was  much  older  than  she.  His  conversation, 
which  was  serious,  took  place  at  intervals  in  his  great 
brown  beard.  After  the  first  year  of  married  life 
Mrs  Kearney  perceived  that  such  a  man  would  wear 
better  than  a  romantic  person  but  she  never  put  her 
own  romantic  ideas  away.  He  was  sober,  thrifty 
and  pious  ;  he  went  to  the  altar  every  first  Friday, 
sometimes  with  her,  oftener  by  himself.  But  she 
never  weakened  in  her  religion  and  was  a  good  wife 
to  him.  At  some  party  in  a  strange  house  when  she 
lifted  her  eyebrow  ever  so  slightly  he  stood  up  to 
take  his  leave  and,  when  his  cough  troubled  him, 
she  put  the  eider-down  quilt  over  his  feet  and  made 
a  strong  rum  punch.  For  his  part  he  was  a  model 
father.  By  paying  a  small  sum  every  week  into  a 
society  he  ensured  for  both  his  daughters  a  dowry  of 
one  hundred  pounds  each  when  they  came  to  the  age 
of  twenty-four.  He  sent  the  elder  daughter,  Kath- 
leen, to  a  good  convent,  where  she  learned  French  and 
music  and  afterwards  paid  her  fees  at  the  Academy. 
Every  year  in  the  month  of  July  Mrs  Kearney  found 
occasion  to  say  to  some  friend  : 

1  My  good  man  is  packing  us  off  to  Skerries  for  a 
few  weeks.' 

If  it  was  not  Skerries  it  was  Howth  or  Grey  stones. 

When  the  Irish  Revival  began  to  be  appreciable 
Mrs  Kearney  determined  to  take  advantage  of  her 
daughter's  name  and  brought  an  Irish  teacher  to  the 
house.     Kathleen  and  her  sister  sent  Irish  picture 


168  DUBLINERS 

postcards  to  their  friends  and  these  friends  sent  back 
other  Irish  picture  postcards.  On  special  Sundays 
when  Mr  Kearney  went  with  his  family  to  the  pro- 
cathedral  a  little  crowd  of  people  would  assemble 
after  mass  at  the  corner  of  Cathedral  Street.  They 
were  all  friends  of  the  Kearneys — musical  friends  or 
Nationalist  friends ;  and,  when  they  had  played 
every  little  counter  of  gossip,  they  shook  hands  with 
one  another  all  together,  laughing  at  the  crossing  of 
so  many  hands  and  said  good-bye  to  one  another  in 
Irish.  Soon  the  name  of  Miss  Kathleen  Kearney 
began  to  be  heard  often  on  people's  lips.  People  said 
that  she  was  very  clever  at  music  and  a  very  nice 
girl  and,  moreover,  that  she  was  a  believer  in  the 
language  movement.  Mrs  Kearney  was  well  content 
at  this.  Therefore  she  was  not  surprised  when  one 
day  Mr  Holohan  came  to  her  and  proposed  that  her 
daughter  should  be  the  accompanist  at  a  series  of 
four  grand  concerts  which  his  Society  was  going  to 
give  in  the  Antient  Concert  Rooms.  She  brought 
him  into  the  drawing-room,  made  him  sit  down  and 
brought  out  the  decanter  and  the  silver  biscuit- 
barrel.  She  entered  heart  and  soul  into  the  details 
of  the  enterprise,  advised  and  dissuaded ;  and 
finally  a  contract  was  drawn  up  by  which  Kathleen 
was  to  receive  eight  guineas  for  her  services  as 
accompanist  at  the  four  grand  concerts. 

As  Mr  Holohan  was  a  novice  in  such  delicate 
matters  as  the  wording  of  bills  and  the  disposing  of 
items  for  a  programme  Mrs  Kearney  helped  him. 
She  had  tact.     She  knew  what  artistes  should  go  into 


A  MOTHER  169 

capitals  and  what  artistes  should  go  into  small  type. 
She  knew  that  the  first  tenor  would  not  like  to  come 
on  after  Mr  Meade's  comic  turn.  To  keep  the  audience 
continually  diverted  she  slipped  the  doubtful  items 
in  between  the  old  favourites.  Mr  Holohan  called 
to  see  her  every  day  to  have  her  advice  on  some 
point.  She  was  invariably  friendly  and  advising — 
homely,  in  fact.  She  pushed  the  decanter  towards 
him,  saying  : 

4  Now,  help  yourself,  Mr  Holohan  ! ' 
And  while  he  was  helping  himself  she  said  : 
■  Don't  be  afraid  !    Don't  be  afraid  of  it ! ' 
Everything   went    on    smoothly.    Mrs    Kearney 
bought  some  lovely  blush-pink  charmeuse  in  Brown 
Thomas's  to  let  into  the  front  of  Kathleen's  dress. 
It  cost  a  pretty  penny ;  but  there  are  occasions  when 
a  little  expense  is  justifiable.     She  took  a  dozen  of 
two-shilling  tickets  for  the  final  concert  and  sent 
them  to  those  friends  who  could  not  be  trusted  to 
come  otherwise.     She  forgot  nothing  and,  thanks 
to    her,    everything    that    was    to    be    done    was 
done. 

The  concerts  were  to  be  on  Wednesday,  Thursday, 
Friday  and  Saturday.  When  Mrs  Kearney  arrived 
with  her  daughter  at  the  Antient  Concert  Rooms  on 
Wednesday  night  she  did  not  like  the  look  of  things. 
A  few  young  men,  wearing  bright  blue  badges  in  their 
coats,  stood  idle  in  the  vestibule  ;  none  of  them  wore 
evening  dress.  She  passed  by  with  her  daughter  and 
a  quick  glance  through  the  open  door  of  the  hall 
showed  her  the  cause  of  the  stewards'  idleness.     At 


170  DUBLINERS 

first  she  wondered  had  she  mistaken  the  hour.  No,  it 
was  twenty  minutes  to  eight. 

In  the  dressing-room  behind  the  stage  she  was 
introduced  to  the  secretary  of  the  Society,  Mr  Fitz- 
patrick.  She  smiled  and  shook  his  hand.  He  was 
a  little  man  with  a  white  vacant  face.  She  noticed 
that  he  wore  his  soft  brown  hat  carelessly  on  the  side 
of  his  head  and  that  his  accent  was  flat.  He  held  a 
programme  in  his  hand  and,  while  he  was  talking  to 
her,  he  chewed  one  end  of  it  into  a  moist  pulp.  He 
seemed  to  bear  disappointments  lightly.  Mr  Holohan 
came  into  the  dressing-room  every  few  minutes  with 
reports  from  the  box-office.  The  artistes  talked 
among  themselves  nervously,  glanced  from  time  to 
time  at  the  mirror  and  rolled  and  unrolled  their  music. 
When  it  was  nearly  half-past  eight  the  few  people 
in  the  hall  began  to  express  their  desire  to  be  enter- 
tained. Mr  Fitzpatrick  came  in,  smiled  vacantly 
at  the  room,  and  said  : 

4  Well  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  I  suppose  we'd 
better  open  the  ball.' 

Mrs  Kearney  rewarded  his  very  flat  final  syllable 
with  a  quick  stare  of  contempt  and  then  said  to  her 
daughter  encouragingly  : 

4  Are  you  ready,  dear  ?  • 

When  she  had  an  opportunity  she  called  Mr 
Holohan  aside  and  asked  him  to  tell  her  what  it 
meant.  Mr  Holohan  did  not  know  what  it  meant. 
He  said  that  the  committee  had  made  a  mistake  in 
arranging  for  four  concerts  :  four  was  too  many. 

4  And   the   artistes  ! '     said   Mrs    Kearney.     4  Of 


A  MOTHER  171 

course  they  are  doing  their  best,  but  really  they  are 
no  good. ' 

Mr  Holohan  admitted  that  the  artistes  were  no 
good  but  the  committee,  he  said,  had  decided  to  let 
the  first  three  concerts  go  as  they  pleased  and  reserve 
all  the  talent  for  Saturday  night.  Mrs  Kearney  said 
nothing  but,  as  the  mediocre  items  followed  one 
another  on  the  platform  and  the  few  people  in  the 
hall  grew  fewer  and  fewer,  she  began  to  regret  that 
she  had  put  herself  to  any  expense  for  such  a  concert. 
There  was  something  she  didn't  like  in  the  look  of 
things  and  Mr  Fitzpatrick's  vacant  smile  irritated 
her  very  much.  However,  she  said  nothing  and 
waited  to  see  how  it  would  end.  The  concert  expired 
shortly  before  ten  and  everyone  went  home  quickly. 

The  concert  on  Thursday  night  was  better  attended 
but  Mrs  Kearney  saw  at  once  that  the  house  was 
rilled  with  paper.  The  audience  behaved  indecor- 
ously as  if  the  concert  were  an  informal  dress  re- 
hearsal. Mr  Fitzpatrick  seemed  to  enjoy  himself ;  he 
was  quite  unconscious  that  Mrs  Kearney  was  taking 
angry  note  of  his  conduct.  He  stood  at  the  edge  of 
the  screen,  from  time  to  time  jutting  out  his  head 
and  exchanging  a  laugh  with  two  friends  in  the 
corner  of  the  balcony.  In  the  course  of  the  evening 
Mrs  Kearney  learned  that  the  Friday  concert  was  to 
be  abandoned  and  that  the  committee  was  going  to 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  secure  a  bumper  house  on 
Saturday  night.  When  she  heard  this  she  sought 
out  Mr  Holohan.  She  buttonholed  him  as  he  was 
limping  out  quickly  with  a  glass  of  lemonade  for  a 


172  DUBLINERS 

young  lady  and  asked  him  was  it  true.  Yes,  it  was 
true. 

4  But,  of  course,  that  doesn't  alter  the  contract,' 
she  said.     '  The  contract  was  for  four  concerts.' 

Mr  Holohan  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry  ;  he  advised 
her  to  speak  to  Mr  Fitzpatrick.  Mrs  Kearney  was 
now  beginning  to  be  alarmed.  She  called  Mr  Fitz- 
patrick away  from  his  screen  and  told  him  that  her 
daughter  had  signed  for  four  concerts  and  that,  of 
course,  according  to  the  terms  of  the  contract,  she 
should  receive  the  sum  originally  stipulated  for 
whether  the  society  gave  the  four  concerts  or  not. 
Mr  Fitzpatrick,  who  did  not  catch  the  point  at  issue 
very  quickly,  seemed  unable  to  resolve  the  difficulty 
and  said  that  he  would  bring  the  matter  before  the 
committee.  Mrs  Kearney's  anger  began  to  flutter  in 
her  cheek  and  she  had  all  she  could  do  to  keep  from 
asking  : 

'  And  who  is  the  Cometty  pray  ?  ' 

But  she  knew  that  it  would  not  be  ladylike  to  do 
that :  so  she  was  silent. 

Little  boys  were  sent  out  into  the  principal  streets 
of  Dublin  early  on  Friday  morning  with  bundles  of 
handbills.  Special  puffs  appeared  in  all  the  evening 
papers  reminding  the  music-loving  public  of  the  treat 
which  was  in  store  for  it  on  the  following  evening. 
Mrs  Kearney  was  somewhat  reassured  but  she  thought 
well  to  tell  her  husband  part  of  her  suspicions.  He 
listened  carefully  and  said  that  perhaps  it  would  be 
better  if  he  went  with  her  on  Saturday  night.  She 
agreed.     She  respected  her  husband  in  the  same  way 


A  MOTHER  173 

as  she  respected  the  General  Post  Office,  as  something 
large,  secure  and  fixed ;  and  though  she  knew  the 
small  number  of  his  talents  she  appreciated  his 
abstract  value  as  a  male.  She  was  glad  that  he  had 
suggested  coming  with  her.  She  thought  her  plans 
over. 

The  night  of  the  grand  concert  came.  Mrs 
Kearney,  with  her  husband  and  daughter,  arrived  at 
the  Antient  Concert  Rooms  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
before  the  time  at  which  the  concert  was  to  begin. 
By  ill  luck  it  was  a  rainy  evening.  Mrs  Kearney 
placed  her  daughter's  clothes  and  music  in  charge  of 
her  husband  and  went  all  over  the  building  looking 
for  Mr  Holohan  or  Mr  Fitzpatrick.  She  could  find 
neither.  She  asked  the  stewards  was  any  member 
of  the  committee  in  the  hall  and,  after  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  a  steward  brought  out  a  little  woman  named 
Miss  Beirne  to  whom  Mrs  Kearney  explained  that  she 
wanted  to  see  one  of  the  secretaries.  Miss  Beirne 
expected  them  any  minute  and  asked  could  she  do 
anything.  Mrs  Kearney  looked  searchingly  at  the 
oldish  face  which  was  screwed  into  an  expression  of 
trustfulness  and  enthusiasm  and  answered : 

4  No,  thank  you  ! ' 

The  little  woman  hoped  they  would  have  a  good 
house.  She  looked  out  at  the  rain  until  the  melan- 
choly of  the  wet  street  effaced  all  the  trustfulness 
and  enthusiasm  from  her  twisted  features.  Then  she 
gave  a  little  sigh  and  said  : 

1  Ah,  well !    We  did  our  best,  the  dear  knows.' 

Mrs  Kearney  had  to  go  back  to  the  dressing-room. 


174  DUBLINERS 

The  artistes  were  arriving.  The  bass  and  the 
second  tenor  had  already  come.  The  bass,  Mr 
Duggan,  was  a  slender  young  man  with  a  scattered 
black  moustache.  He  was  the  son  of  a  hall  porter 
in  an  office  in  the  city  and,  as  a  boy,  he  had  sung 
prolonged  bass  notes  in  the  resounding  hall.  From 
this  humble  state  he  had  raised  himself  until  he  had 
become  a  first-rate  artiste.  He  had  appeared  in  grand 
opera.  One  night,  when  an  operatic  artiste  had 
fallen  ill,  he  had  undertaken  the  part  of  the  king  in 
the  opera  of  Maritana  at  the  Queen's  Theatre.  He 
sang  his  music  with  great  feeling  and  volume  and 
was  warmly  welcomed  by  the  gallery ;  but,  unfor- 
tunately, he  marred  the  good  impression  by  wiping 
his  nose  in  his  gloved  hand  once  or  twice  out  of 
thoughtlessness.  He  was  unassuming  and  spoke 
little.  He  said  yous  so  softly  that  it  passed  unnoticed 
and  he  never  drank  anything  stronger  than  milk  for 
his  voice'  sake.  Mr  Bell,  the  second  tenor,  was  a  fair- 
haired  little  man  who  competed  every  year  for  prizes 
at  the  Feis  Ceoil.  On  his  fourth  trial  he  had  been 
awarded  a  bronze  medal.  He  was  extremely  nervous 
and  extremely  jealous  of  other  tenors  and  he  covered 
his  nervous  jealousy  with  an  ebullient  friendliness. 
It  was  his  humour  to  have  people  know  what  an 
ordeal  a  concert  was  to  him.  Therefore  when  he  saw 
Mr  Duggan  he  went  over  to  him  and  asked  : 

4  Are  you  in  it  too  ?  ' 

4  Yes,'  said  Mr  Duggan. 

Mr  Bell  laughed  at  his  fellow-sufferer,  held  out  his 
hand  and  said : 


A  MOTHER  175 

4  Shake  ! ' 

Mrs  Kearney  passed  by  these  two  young  men  and 
went  to  the  edge  of  the  screen  to  view  the  house. 
The  seats  were  being  filled  up  rapidly  and  a  pleasant 
noise  circulated  in  the  auditorium.  She  came  back 
and  spoke  to  her  husband  privately.  Their  con- 
versation was  evidently  about  Kathleen  for  they 
both  glanced  at  her  often  as  she  stood  chatting  to 
one  of  her  Nationalist  friends,  Miss  Healy,  the 
contralto.  An  unknown  solitary  woman  with  a  pale 
face  walked  through  the  room.  The  women  followed 
with  keen  eyes  the  faded  blue  dress  which  was 
stretched  upon  a  meagre  body.  Someone  said  that 
she  was  Madam  Glynn,  the  soprano. 

4 1  wonder  where  did  they  dig  her  up,'  said  Kathleen 
to  Miss  Healy.     '  I'm  sure  I  never  heard  of  her.' 

Miss  Healy  had  to  smile.  Mr  Holohan  limped 
into  the  dressing-room  at  that  moment  and  the  two 
young  ladies  asked  him  who  was  the  unknown 
woman.  Mr  Holohan  said  that  she  was  Madam 
Glynn  from  London.  Madam  Glynn  took  her  stand 
in  a  corner  of  the  room,  holding  a  roll  of  music 
stiffly  before  her  and  from  time  to  time  changing  the 
direction  of  her  startled  gaze.  The  shadow  took  her 
faded  dress  into  shelter  but  fell  revengefully  into 
the  little  cup  behind  her  collar-bone.  The  noise 
of  the  hall  became  more  audible.  The  first  tenor 
and  the  baritone  arrived  together.  They  were  both 
well  dressed,  stout  and  complacent  and  they  brought 
a  breath  of  opulence  among  the  company. 

Mrs  Kearney  brought  her  daughter  over  to  them, 


176  DUBLINERS 

and  talked  to  them  amiably.  She  wanted  to  be  on 
good  terms  with  them  but,  while  she  strove  to  be 
polite,  her  eyes  followed  Mr  Holohan  in  his  limping 
and  devious  courses.  As  soon  as  she  could  she 
excused  herself  and  went  out  after  him. 

'Mr  Holohan,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  for  a 
moment,'  she  said. 

They  went  down  to  a  discreet  part  of  the  corridor. 
Mrs  Kearney  asked  him  when  was  her  daughter  going 
to  be  paid.  Mr  Holohan  said  that  Mr  Fitzpatrick 
had  charge  of  that.  Mrs  Kearney  said  that  she 
didn't  know  anything  about  Mr  Fitzpatrick.  Her 
daughter  had  signed  a  contract  for  eight  guineas  and 
she  would  have  to  be  paid.  Mr  Holohan  said  that  it 
wasn't  his  business. 

4  Why  isn't  it  your  business  ?  '  asked  Mrs  Kearney. 
4  Didn't  you  yourself  bring  her  the  contract  ?  Any- 
way, if  it's  not  your  business  it's  my  business  and 
I  mean  to  see  to  it.' 

1  You'd  better  speak  to  Mr  Fitzpatrick,'  said  Mr 
Holohan  distantly. 

4 1  don't  know  anything  about  Mr  Fitzpatrick,' 
repeated  Mrs  Kearney.  4 1  have  my  contract,  and 
I  intend  to  see  that  it  is  carried  out.' 

When  she  came  back  to  the  dressing-room  her 
cheeks  were  slightly  suffused.  The  room  was  lively. 
Two  men  in  outdoor  dress  had  taken  possession  of  the 
fireplace  and  were  chatting  familiarly  with  Miss 
Healy  and  the  baritone.  They  were  the  Freeman 
men  and  Mr  O'Madden  Burke.  The  Freeman  man 
had  come  in  to  say  that  he  could  not  wait  for  the 


A  MOTHER  177 

concert  as  he  had  to  report  the  lecture  which  an 
American  priest  was  giving  in  the  Mansion  House. 
He  said  they  were  to  leave  the  report  for  him  at 
the  Freeman  office  and  he  would  see  that  it  went  in. 
He  was  a  grey-haired  man,  with  a  plausible  voice  and 
careful  manners.  He  held  an  extinguished  cigar  in 
his  hand  and  the  aroma  of  cigar  smoke  floated  near 
him.  He  had  not  intended  to  stay  a  moment 
because  concerts  and  artistes  bored  him  considerably 
but  he  remained  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece. 
Miss  Healy  stood  in  front  of  him,  talking  and  laugh- 
ing. He  was  old  enough  to  suspect  one  reason  for 
her  politeness  but  young  enough  in  spirit  to  turn  the 
moment  to  account.  The  warmth,  fragrance  and 
colour  of  her  body  appealed  to  his  senses.  He  was 
pleasantly  conscious  that  the  bosom  which  he  saw 
rise  and  fall  slowly  beneath  him  rose  and  fell  at  that 
moment  for  him,  that  the  laughter  and  fragrance  and 
wilful  glances  were  his  tribute.  When  he  could  stay 
no  longer  he  took  leave  of  her  regretfully. 

'  O'Madden  Burke  will  write  the  notice,'  he 
explained  to  Mr  Holohan,  c  and  I'll  see  it  in.' 

4  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr  Hendrick,'  said  Mr 
Holohan.  '  You'll  see  it  in,  I  know.  Now,  won't 
you  have  a  little  something  before  you  go  ?  ' 

4 1  don't  mind,'  said  Mr  Hendrick. 

The  two  men  went  along  some  tortuous  passages 
and  up  a  dark  staircase  and  came  to  a  secluded  room 
where  one  of  the  stewards  was  uncorking  bottles  for 
a  few  gentlemen.  One  of  these  gentlemen  was  Mr 
O'Madden  Burke,  who  had  found  out  the  room  by 

M 


178  DUBLINERS 

instinct.  He  was  a  suave  elderly  man  who 
balanced  his  imposing  body,  when  at  rest,  upon  a 
large  silk  umbrella.  His  magniloquent  western 
name  was  the  moral  umbrella  upon  which  he 
balanced  the  fine  problem  of  his  finances.  He  was 
widely  respected. 

While  Mr  Holohan  was  entertaining  the  Freeman 
man  Mrs  Kearney  was  speaking  so  animatedly  to  her 
husband  that  he  had  to  ask  her  to  lower  her  voice. 
The  conversation  of  the  others  in  the  dressing-room 
had  become  strained.  Mr  Bell,  the  first  item,  stood 
ready  with  his  music  but  the  accompanist  made  no 
sign.  Evidently  something  was  wrong.  Mr  Kearney 
looked  straight  before  him,  stroking  his  beard, 
while  Mrs  Kearney  spoke  into  Kathleen's  ear  with 
subdued  emphasis.  From  the  hall  came  sounds  of 
encouragement,  clapping  and  stamping  of  feet. 
The  first  tenor  and  the  baritone  and  Miss  Healy  stood 
together,  waiting  tranquilly,  but  Mr  Bell's  nerves 
were  greatly  agitated  because  he  was  afraid  the 
audience  would  think  that  he  had  come  late. 

Mr  Holohan  and  Mr  O'Madden  Burke  came  into 
the  room.  In  a  moment  Mr  Holohan  perceived  the 
hush.  He  went  over  to  Mrs  Kearney  and  spoke  with 
her  earnestly.  While  they  were  speaking  the  noise 
in  the  hall  grew  louder.  Mr  Holohan  became  very 
red  and  excited.  He  spoke  volubly,  but  Mrs  Kearney 
said  curtly  at  intervals  : 

4  She  won't  go  on.  She  must  get  her  eight 
guineas. ' 

Mr  Holohan  pointed  desperately  towards  the  hall 


A  MOTHER  179 

where  the  audience  was  clapping  and  stamping. 
He  appealed  to  Mr  Kearney  and  to  Kathleen.  But 
Mr  Kearney  continued  to  stroke  his  beard  and 
Kathleen  looked  down,  moving  the  point  of  her  new 
shoe  :  it  was  not  her  fault.     Mrs  Kearney  repeated  : 

1  She  won't  go  on  without  her  money.' 

After  a  swift  struggle  of  tongues  Mr  Holohan 
hobbled  out  in  haste.  The  room  was  silent.  When 
the  strain  of  the  silence  had  become  somewhat 
painful  Miss  Healy  said  to  the  baritone  : 

'  Have  you  seen  Mrs  Pat  Campbell  this  week  ?  ' 

The  baritone  had  not  seen  her  but  he  had  been  told 
that  she  was  very  fine.  The  conversation  went  no 
further.  The  first  tenor  bent  his  head  and  began  to 
count  the  links  of  the  gold  chain  which  was  extended 
across  his  waist,  smiling  and  humming  random  notes 
to  observe  the  effect  on  the  frontal  sinus.  From 
time  to  time  everyone  glanced  at  Mrs  Kearney. 

The  noise  in  the  auditorium  had  risen  to  a  clamour 
when  Mr  Fitzpatrick  burst  into  the  room,  followed 
by  Mr  Holohan,  who  was  panting.  The  clapping  and 
stamping  in  the  hall  were  punctuated  by  whistling. 
Mr  Fitzpatrick  held  a  few  bank-notes  in  his  hand. 
He  counted  out  four  into  Mrs  Kearney's  hand  and 
said  she  would  get  the  other  half  at  the  interval. 
Mrs  Kearney  said  : 

4  This  is  four  shillings  short.' 

But  Kathleen  gathered  in  her  skirt  and  said  : 
'  Now,  Mr  Bell?  to  the  first  item,  who  was  shaking 
like  an  aspen.  The  singer  and  the  accompanist  went 
out  together.     The  noise   in  the  hall  died  away. 


180  DUBLINERS 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  few  seconds  :  and  then  the 
piano  was  heard. 

The  first  part  of  the  concert  was  very  successful 
except  for  Madam  Glynn's  item.  The  poor  lady  sang 
Killamey  in  a  bodiless  gasping  voice,  with  all  the 
old-fashioned  mannerisms  of  intonation  and  pro- 
nunication  which  she  believed  lent  elegance  to  her 
singing.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  been  resurrected 
from  an  old  stage-wardrobe  and  the  cheaper  parts 
of  the  hall  made  fun  of  her  high  wailing  notes.  The 
first  tenor  and  the  contralto,  however,  brought  down 
the  house.  Kathleen  played  a  selection  of  Irish  airs 
which  was  generously  applauded.  The  first  part 
closed  with  a  stirring  patriotic  recitation  delivered 
by  a  young  lady  who  arranged  amateur  theatricals. 
It  was  deservedly  applauded ;  and,  when  it  was 
ended,  the  men  went  out  for  the  interval,  content. 

All  this  time  the  dressing-room  was  a  hive  of  excite- 
ment. In  one  corner  were  Mr  Holohan,  Mr  Fitz- 
pa trick,  Miss  Beirne,  two  of  the  stewards,  the  baritone, 
the  bass,  and  Mr  O'Madden  Burke.  Mr  O'Madden 
Burke  said  it  was  the  most  scandalous  exhibition 
he  had  ever  witnessed.  Miss  Kathleen  Kearney's 
musical  career  was  ended  in  Dublin  after  that,  he  said. 
The  baritone  was  asked  what  did  he  think  of  Mrs 
Kearney's  conduct.  He  did  not  like  to  say  anything. 
He  had  been  paid  his  money  and  wished  to  be  at 
peace  with  men.  However,  he  said  that  Mrs 
Kearney  might  have  taken  the  artistes  into  considera- 
tion. The  stewards  and  the  secretaries  debated  hotly 
as  to  what  should  be  done  when  the  interval  came. 


A  MOTHER  181 

1 1  agree  with  Miss  Beirne,'  said  Mr  O'Madden 
Burke.     '  Pay  her  nothing.' 

In  another  corner  of  the  room  were  Mrs  Kearney 
and  her  husband,  Mr  Bell,  Miss  Healy  and  the  young 
lady  who  had  to  recite  the  patriotic  piece.  Mrs 
Kearney  said  that  the  committee  had  treated  her 
scandalously.  She  had  spared  neither  trouble  nor 
expense  and  this  was  how  she  was  repaid. 

They  thought  they  had  only  a  girl  to  deal  with 
and  that,  therefore,  they  could  ride  roughshod  over 
her.  But  she  would  show  them  their  mistake. 
They  wouldn't  have  dared  to  have  treated  her  like 
that  if  she  had  been  a  man.  But  she  would  see  that 
her  daughter  got  her  rights  :  she  wouldn't  be  fooled. 
If  they  didn't  pay  her  to  the  last  farthing  she  would 
make  Dublin  ring.  Of  course  she  was  sorry  for  the 
sake  of  the  artistes.  But  what  else  could  she  do  ? 
She  appealed  to  the  second  tenor  who  said  he  thought 
she  had  not  been  well  treated.  Then  she  appealed 
to  Miss  Healy.  Miss  Healy  wanted  to  join  the  other 
group  but  she  did  not  like  to  do  so  because  she  was 
a  great  friend  of  Kathleen's  and  the  Kearneys  had 
often  invited  her  to  their  house. 

As  soon  as  the  first  part  was  ended  Mr  Fitzpatrick 
and  Mr  Holohan  went  over  to  Mrs  Kearney  and  told 
her  that  the  other  four  guineas  would  be  paid  after 
the  committee  meeting  on  the  following  Tuesday  and 
that,  in  case  her  daughter  did  not  play  for  the  second 
part,  the  committee  would  consider  the  contract 
broken  and  would  pay  nothing. 

4 1  haven't  seen  any  committee,'  said  Mrs  Kearney 


182  DUBLINERS 

angrily.  *  My  daughter  has  her  contract.  She  will 
get  four  pounds  eight  into  her  hand  or  a  foot  she 
won't  put  up  on  that  platform.' 

4  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Mrs  Kearney,'  said  Mr 
Holohan.  4  I  never  thought  you  would  treat  us  this 
way.' 

4  And  what  way  did  you  treat  me  ?  '  asked  Mrs 
Kearney. 

Her  face  was  inundated  with  an  angry  colour  and 
she  looked  as  if  she  would  attack  someone  with  her 
hands. 

4  I'm  asking  for  my  rights,'  she  said. 

4  You  might  have  some  sense  of  decency,'  said  Mr 
Holohan. 

4  Might  I,  indeed  ?  .  .  .  And  when  I  ask  when 
my  daughter  is  going  to  be  paid  I  can't  get  a  civil 
answer.' 

She  tossed  her  head  and  assumed  a  haughty 
voice  : 

4  You  must  speak  to  the  secretary.  It's  not  my 
business.     I'm  a  great  fellow  fol-the-diddle-I-do.' 

4 1  thought  you  were  a  lady,'  said  Mr  Holohan, 
walking  away  from  her  abruptly. 

After  that  Mrs  Kearney's  conduct  was  condemned 
on  all  hands  :  everyone  approved  of  what  the  com- 
mittee had  done.  She  stood  at  the  door,  haggard 
with  rage,  arguing  with  her  husband  and  daughter, 
gesticulating  with  them.  She  waited  until  it  was  time 
for  the  second  part  to  begin  in  the  hope  that  the 
secretaries  would  approach  her.  But  Miss  Healy 
had  kindly  consented  to  play  one  or  two  accompani- 


A  MOTHER  183 

ments.  Mrs  Kearney  had  to  stand  aside  to  allow 
the  baritone  and  his  accompanist  to  pass  up  to  the 
platform.  She  stood  still  for  an  instant  like  an  angry 
stone  image  and,  when  the  first  notes  of  the  song 
struck  her  ear,  she  caught  up  her  daughter's  cloak 
and  said  to  her  husband  : 

4  Get  a  cab  ! ' 

He  went  out  at  once.  Mrs  Kearney  wrapped  the 
cloak  round  her  daughter  and  followed  him.  As  she 
passed  through  the  doorway  she  stopped  and  glared 
into  Mr  Holohan's  face. 

4  I'm  not  done  with  you  yet,'  she  said. 

4  But  I'm  done  with  you,'  said  Mr  Holohan. 

Kathleen  followed  her  mother  meekly.  Mr  Holo- 
han began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room,  in  order  to 
cool  himself  for  he  felt  his  skin  on  fire. 

4  That's  a  nice  lady  ! '  he  said.  4  O,  she's  a  nice 
lady  ! ' 

4  You  did  the  proper  thing,  Holohan,'  said  Mr 
O'Madden  Burke,  poised  upon  his  umbrella  in 
approval. 


GRACE 

Two  gentlemen  who  were  in  the  lavatory  at  the  time 
tried  to  lift  him  up  :  but  he  was  quite  helpless.  He 
lay  curled  up  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  down  which 
he  had  fallen.  They  succeeded  in  turning  him  over. 
His  hat  had  rolled  a  few  yards  away  and  his  clothes 
were  smeared  with  the  filth  and  ooze  of  the  floor  on 
which  he  had  lain,  face  downwards.  His  eyes  were 
closed  and  he  breathed  with  a  grunting  noise.  A 
thin  stream  of  blood  trickled  from  the  corner  of  his 
mouth. 

These  two  gentlemen  and  one  of  the  curates 
carried  him  up  the  stairs  and  laid  him  down  again 
on  the  floor  of  the  bar.  In  two  minutes  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  ring  of  men.  The  manager  of  the  bar 
asked  everyone  who  he  was  and  who  was  with  him. 
No  one  knew  who  he  was  but  one  of  the  curates  said 
he  had  served  the  gentleman  with  a  small  rum. 

4  Was  he  by  himself  ?  '  asked  the  manager. 

4  No,  sir.     There  was  two  gentlemen  with  him.' 

4  And  where  are  they  ?  ' 

No  one  knew  ;  a  voice  said  : 

1  Give  him  air.     He's  fainted.' 

The  ring  of  onlookers  distended  and  closed  again 
elastically.  A  dark  medal  of  blood  had  formed 
itself  near  the  man's  head  on  the  tessellated  floor. 

184 


GRACE  185 

The  manager,  alarmed  by  the  grey  pallor  of  the 
man's  face,  sent  for  a  policeman. 

His  collar  was  unfastened  and  his  necktie  undone. 
He  opened  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  sighed  and  closed 
them  again.  One  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  carried 
him  upstairs  held  a  dinged  silk  hat  in  his  hand.  The 
manager  asked  repeatedly  did  no  one  know  who  the 
injured  man  was  or  where  had  his  friends  gone.  The 
door  of  the  bar  opened  and  an  immense  constable 
entered.  A  crowd  which  had  followed  him  down 
the  laneway  collected  outside  the  door,  struggling 
to  look  in  through  the  glass  panels. 

The  manager  at  once  began  to  narrate  what  he 
knew.  The  constable,  a  young  man  with  thick 
immobile  features,  listened.  He  moved  his  head 
slowly  to  right  and  left  and  from  the  manager  to  the 
person  on  the  floor,  as  if  he  feared  to  be  the  victim 
of  some  delusion.  Then  he  drew  off  his  glove,  pro- 
duced a  small  book  from  his  waist,  licked  the  lead  of 
his  pencil  and  made  ready  to  indite.  He  asked  in  a 
suspicious  provincial  accent  : 

4  Who  is  the  man  ?    What's  his  name  and  address?' 

A  young  man  in  a  cycling-suit  cleared  his  way 
through  the  ring  of  bystanders.  He  knelt  down 
promptly  beside  the  injured  man  and  called  for 
water.  The  constable  knelt  down  also  to  help. 
The  young  man  washed  the  blood  from  the  injured 
man's  mouth  and  then  called  for  some  brandy.  The 
constable  repeated  the  order  in  an  authoritative 
voice  until  a  curate  came  running  with  the  glass. 
The  brandy  was  forced  down  the  man's  throat. 


186  DUBLINERS 

In  a  few  seconds  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  about 
him.  He  looked  at  the  circle  of  faces  and  then, 
understanding,  strove  to  rise  to  his  feet. 

4  You're  all  right  now  ?  '  asked  the  young  man  in 
the  cycling-suit. 

4  Sha,  's  nothing,'  said  the  injured  man,  trying  to 
stand  up. 

He  was  helped  to  his  feet.  The  manager  said 
something  about  a  hospital  and  some  of  the  by- 
standers gave  advice.  The  battered  silk  hat  was 
placed  on  the  man's  head.     The  constable  asked  : 

'  Where  do  you  live  ?  ' 

The  man,  without  answering,  began  to  twirl  the 
ends  of  his  moustache.  He  made  light  of  his  accident. 
It  was  nothing,  he  said  :  only  a  little  accident.  He 
spoke  very  thickly. 

1  Where  do  you  live  ?  '  repeated  the  constable. 

The  man  said  they  were  to  get  a  cab  for  him. 
While  the  point  was  being  debated  a  tall  agile  gentle- 
man of  fair  complexion,  wearing  a  long  yellow  ulster, 
came  from  the  far  end  of  the  bar.  Seeing  the 
spectacle  he  called  out : 

4  Hallo,  Tom,  old  man  !     What's  the  trouble  ?  ' 

4  Sha,  's  nothing,'  said  the  man. 

The  new-comer  surveyed  the  deplorable  figure 
before  him  and  then  turned  to  the  constable 
saying : 

4  It's  all  right,  constable.     I'll  see  him  home.' 

The  constable  touched  his  helmet  and  answered  : 

4  All  right,  Mr  Power  ! ' 

4  Come  now,  Tom,'  said  Mr  Power,  taking  his 


GRACE  187 

friend  by  the  arm.  4  No  bones  broken.  What  ? 
Can  you  walk  ?  ' 

The  young  man  in  the  cycling-suit  took  the  man 
by  the  other  arm  and  the  crowd  divided. 

4  How  did  you  get  yourself  into  this  mess  ?  '  asked 
Mr  Power. 

4  The  gentleman  fell  down  the  stairs,'  said  the 
young  man. 

4 1'  'ery  'uch  o'liged  to  you,  sir,'  said  the  injured 
man. 

4  Not  at  all.' 

4  'ant'  we  have  a  little  .  .  .  ?  ' 

4  Not  now.    Not  now.' 

The  three  men  left  the  bar  and  the  crowd  sifted 
through  the  doors  into  the  laneway.  The  manager 
brought  the  constable  to  the  stairs  to  inspect  the 
scene  of  the  accident.  They  agreed  that  the  gentle- 
man must  have  missed  his  footing.  The  customers 
returned  to  the  counter  and  a  curate  set  about 
removing  the  traces  of  blood  from  the  floor. 

When  they  came  out  into  Grafton  Street  Mr  Power 
whistled  for  an  outsider.  The  injured  man  said  again 
as  well  as  he  could  : 

4 1'  'ery  'uch  o'liged  to  you,  sir.  I  hope  we'll  'eet 
again,     'y  na'e  is  Kernan.' 

The  shock  and  the  incipient  pain  had  partly 
sobered  him. 

4  Don't  mention  it,'  said  the  young  man. 

They  shook  hands.  Mr  Kernan  was  hoisted  on 
to  the  car  and,  while  Mr  Power  was  giving  directions 
to  the  carman,  he  expressed  his  gratitude  to  the  young 


188  DUBLINERS 

man  and  regretted  that  they  could  not  have  a  little 
drink  together. 

'  Another  time,'  said  the  young  man. 

The  car  drove  off  towards  Westmoreland  Street. 
As  it  passed  the  Ballast  Office  the  clock  showed  half- 
past  nine.  A  keen  east  wind  hit  them  blowing  from 
the  mouth  of  the  river.  Mr  Kernan  was  huddled 
together  with  cold.  His  friend  asked  him  to  tell  how 
the  accident  had  happened. 

4 1  'an't,  'an,'  he  answered,  '  'y  'ongue  is  hurt.' 

'  Show.' 

The  other  leaned  over  the  well  of  the  car  and 
peered  into  Mr  Kernan's  mouth  but  he  could  not  see. 
He  struck  a  match  and,  sheltering  it  in  the  shell  of 
his  hands,  peered  again  into  the  mouth  which  Mr 
Kernan  opened  obediently.  The  swaying  movement 
of  the  car  brought  the  match  to  and  from  the  opened 
mouth.  The  lower  teeth  and  gums  were  covered  with 
clotted  blood  and  a  minute  piece  of  the  tongue  seemed 
to  have  been  bitten  off.     The  match  was  blown  out. 

4  That's  ugly,'  said  Mr  Power. 

4  Sha,  's  nothing,'  said  Mr  Kernan,  closing  his 
mouth  and  pulling  the  collar  of  his  filthy  coat  across 
his  neck. 

Mr  Kernan  was  a  commercial  traveller  of  the  old 
school  which  believed  in  the  dignity  of  its  calling. 
He  had  never  been  seen  in  the  city  without  a  silk 
hat  of  some  decency  and  a  pair  of  gaiters.  By  grace 
of  these  two  articles  of  clothing,  he  said,  a  man 
could  always  pass  muster.  He  carried  on  the  tradi- 
tion of  his  Napoleon,  the  great  Black  white,  whose 


GRACE  189 

memory  he  evoked  at  times  by  legend  and  mimicry. 
Modern  business  methods  had  spared  him  only  so  far 
as  to  allow  him  a  little  office  in  Crowe  Street  on  the 
window  blind  of  which  was  written  the  name  of  his 
firm  with  the  address — London,  E.C.  On  the  mantel- 
piece of  this  little  office  a  little  leaden  battalion  of 
canisters  was  drawn  up  and  on  the  table  before  the 
window  stood  four  or  five  china  bowls  which  were 
usually  half  full  of  a  black  liquid.  From  these  bowls 
Mr  Kernan  tasted  tea.  He  took  a  mouthful,  drew  it 
up,  saturated  his  palate  with  it  and  then  spat  it  forth 
into  the  grate.     Then  he  paused  to  judge. 

Mr  Power,  a  much  younger  man,  was  employed  in 
the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary  Office  in  Dublin  Castle. 
The  arc  of  his  social  rise  intersected  the  arc  of  his 
friend's  decline  but  Mr  Kernan's  decline  was  mitigated 
by  the  fact  that  certain  of  those  friends  who  had 
known  him  at  his  highest  point  of  success  still 
esteemed  him  as  a  character.  Mr  Power  was  one 
of  these  friends.  His  inexplicable  debts  were  a 
byword  in  his  circle ;  he  was  a  debonair  young 
man. 

The  car  halted  before  a  small  house  on  the  Glasnevin 
road  and  Mr  Kernan  was  helped  into  the  house. 
His  wife  put  him  to  bed  while  Mr  Power  sat  down- 
stairs in  the  kitchen  asking  the  children  where  they 
went  to  school  and  what  book  they  were  in.  The 
children — two  girls  and  a  boy,  conscious  of  their 
father's  helplessness  and  of  their  mother's  absence, 
began  some  horseplay  with  him.  He  was  surprised 
at  their  manners  and  at  their  accents  and  his  brow 


190  DUBLINERS 

grew  thoughtful.  After  a  while  Mrs  Kernan  entered 
the  kitchen,  exclaiming  : 

4  Such  a  sight !  O,  he'll  do  for  himself  one  day 
and  that's  the  holy  alls  of  it.  He's  been  drinking 
since  Friday.' 

Mr  Power  was  careful  to  explain  to  her  that  he 
was  not  responsible,  that  he  had  come  on  the  scene 
by  the  merest  accident.  Mrs  Kernan,  remembering 
Mr  Power's  good  offices  during  domestic  quarrels 
as  well  as  many  small,  but  opportune  loans,  said  : 

1  O,  you  needn't  tell  me  that,  Mr  Power.  I  know 
you're  a  friend  of  his  not  like  some  of  those  others  he 
does  be  with.  They're  all  right  so  long  as  he  has 
money  in  his  pocket  to  keep  him  out  from  his  wife  and 
family.  Nice  friends  !  Who  was  he  with  to-night, 
I'd  like  to  know  ?  ' 

Mr  Power  shook  his  head  but  said  nothing. 

*  I'm  so  sorry,'  she  continued,  '  that  I've  nothing 
in  the  house  to  offer  you.  But  if  you  wait  a  minute 
I'll  send  round  to  Fogarty's  at  the  corner.' 

Mr  Power  stood  up. 

4  We  were  waiting  for  him  to  come  home  with  the 
money.    He  never  seems  to  think  he  has  a  home  at  all. ' 

4  O,  now,  Mrs  Kernan,'  said  Mr  Power  '  we'll  make 
him  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  I'll  talk  to  Martin.  He's 
the  man.  We'll  come  here  one  of  these  nights  and 
talk  it  over.' 

She  saw  him  to  the  door.  The  carman  was 
stamping  up  and  down  the  footpath,  and  swinging  his 
arms  to  warm  himself. 

4  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  bring  him  home,'  she  said. 


GRACE  191 

1  Not  at  all,'  said  Mr  Power. 

He  got  up  on  the  car.  As  it  drove  off  he  raised 
his  hat  to  her  gaily. 

'  We'll  make  a  new  man  of  him,'  he  said.  4  Good- 
night, Mrs  Reman.' 

Mrs  Kernan's  puzzled  eyes  watched  the  car  till 
it  was  out  of  sight.  Then  she  withdrew  them,  went 
into  the  house  and  emptied  her  husband's  pockets. 

She  was  an  active,  practical  woman  of  middle  age. 
Not  long  before  she  had  celebrated  her  silver  wedding 
and  renewed  her  intimacy  with  her  husband  by 
waltzing  with  him  to  Mr  Power's  accompaniment. 
In  her  days  of  courtship  Mr  Kernan  had  seemed  to 
her  a  not  ungallant  figure  :  and  she  still  hurried  to 
the  chapel  door  whenever  a  wedding  was  reported 
and,  seeing  the  bridal  pair,  recalled  with  vivid 
pleasure  how  she  had  passed  out  of  the  Star  of  the 
Sea  Church  in  Sandymount,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a 
jovial  well-fed  man  who  was  dressed  smartly  in  a 
frock-coat  and  lavender  trousers  and  carried  a  silk 
hat  gracefully  balanced  upon  his  other  arm.  After 
three  weeks  she  had  found  a  wife's  life  irksome  and, 
later  on,  when  she  was  beginning  to  find  it  unbearable, 
she  had  become  a  mother.  The  part  of  mother 
presented  to  her  no  insuperable  difficulties  and  for 
twenty-five  years  she  had  kept  house  shrewdly  for 
her  husband.  Her  two  eldest  sons  were  launched. 
One  was  in  a  draper's  shop  in  Glasgow  and  the  other 
was  clerk  to  a  tea-merchant  in  Belfast.  They  were 
good    sons,   wrote    regularly  and    sometimes    sent 


192  DUBLINERS 

home  money.  The  other  children  were  still  at 
school. 

Mr  Kernan  sent  a  letter  to  his  office  next  day  and 
remained  in  bed.  She  made  beef-tea  for  him  and 
scolded  him  roundly.  She  accepted  his  frequent 
intemperance  as  part  of  the  climate,  healed  him 
dutifully  whenever  he  was  sick  and  always  tried 
to  make  him  eat  a  breakfast.  There  were  worse 
husbands.  He  had  never  been  violent  since  the 
boys  had  grown  up  and  she  knew  that  he  would  walk 
to  the  end  of  Thomas  Street  and  back  again  to  book 
even  a  small  order. 

Two  nights  after  his  friends  came  to  see  him. 
She  brought  them  up  to  his  bedroom,  the  air  of 
which  was  impregnated  with  a  personal  odour,  and 
gave  them  chairs  at  the  fire.  Mr  Kernan' s  tongue, 
the  occasional  stinging  pain  of  which  had  made  him 
somewhat  irritable  during  the  day,  became  more 
polite.  He  sat  propped  up  in  the  bed  by  pillows 
and  the  little  colour  in  his  puffy  cheeks  made  them 
resemble  warm  cinders.  He  apologised  to  his  guests 
for  the  disorder  of  the  room  but  at  the  same  time 
looked  at  them  a  little  proudly,  with  a  veteran's 
pride. 

He  was  quite  unconscious  that  he  was  the  victim 
of  a  plot  which  his  friends,  Mr  Cunningham,  Mr 
M'Coy  and  Mr  Power  had  disclosed  to  Mrs  Kernan 
in  the  parlour.  The  idea  had  been  Mr  Power's  but 
its  development  was  entrusted  to  Mr  Cunningham. 
Mr  Kernan  came  of  Protestant  stock  and,  though  he 
had  been  converted  to  the  Catholic  faith  at  the  time 


GRACE  193 

of  his  marriage,  he  had  not  been  in  the  pale  of  the 
Church  for  twenty  years.  He  was  fond,  moreover, 
of  giving  side-thrusts  at  Catholicism. 

Mr  Cunningham  was  the  very  man  for  such  a  case. 
He  was  an  elder  colleague  of  Mr  Power.  His  own 
domestic  life  was  not  very  happy.  People  had  great 
sympathy  with  him  for  it  was  known  that  he  had 
married  an  unpresentable  woman  who  was  an 
incurable  drunkard.  He  had  set  up  house  for  her  six 
times  ;  and  each  time  she  had  pawned  the  furniture 
on  him. 

Everyone  had  respect  for  poor  Martin  Cunningham. 
He  was  a  thoroughly  sensible  man,  influential  and 
intelligent.  His  blade  of  human  knowledge,  natural 
astuteness  particularised  by  long  association  with 
cases  in  the  police  courts,  had  been  tempered  by 
brief  immersions  in  the  waters  of  general  philosophy. 
He  was  well  informed.  His  friends  bowed  to  his 
opinions  and  considered  that  his  face  was  like 
Shakespeare's. 

When  the  plot  had  been  disclosed  to  her  Mrs 
Kernan  had  said : 

4 1  leave  it  all  in  your  hands,  Mr  Cunningham.' 

After  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  married  life  she  had 
very  few  illusions  left.  Religion  for  her  was  a  habit 
and  she  suspected  that  a  man  of  her  husband's  age 
would  not  change  greatly  before  death.  She  was 
tempted  to  see  a  curious  appropriateness  in  his 
accident  and,  but  that  she  did  not  wish  to  seem 
bloody-minded,  she  would  have  told  the  gentlemen 
that  Mr  Kernan's  tongue  would  not  suffer  by  being 


194  DUBLINERS 

shortened.  However,  Mr  Cunningham  was  a 
capable  man;  and  religion  was  religion.  The 
scheme  might  do  good  and,  at  least,  it  could  do 
no  harm.  Her  beliefs  were  not  extravagant.  She 
believed  steadily  in  the  Sacred  Heart  as  the  most 
generally  useful  of  all  Catholic  devotions  and  ap- 
proved of  the  sacraments.  Her  faith  was  bounded 
by  her  kitchen  but,  if  she  was  put  to  it,  she  could 
believe  also  in  the  banshee  and  in  the  Holy  Ghost. 

The  gentlemen  began  to  talk  of  the  accident. 
Mr  Cunningham  said  that  he  had  once  known  a 
similar  case.  A  man  of  seventy  had  bitten  off  a 
piece  of  his  tongue  during  an  epileptic  fit  and  the 
tongue  had  filled  in  again  so  that  no  one  could  see  a 
trace  of  the  bite. 

6  Well,  I'm  not  seventy,'  said  the  invalid. 

1  God  forbid,'  said  Mr  Cunningham. 

■  It  doesn't  pain  you  now  ?  '   asked  Mr  M'Coy. 

Mr  M'Coy  had  been  at  one  time  a  tenor  of  some 
reputation.  His  wife,  who  had  been  a  soprano, 
still  taught  young  children  to  play  the  piano  at  low 
terms.  His  line  of  life  had  not  been  the  shortest 
distance  between  two  points  and  for  short  periods  he 
had  been  driven  to  live  by  his  wits.  He  had  been 
a  clerk  in  the  Midland  Railway,  a  canvasser  for 
advertisements  for  The  Irish  Times  and  for  The  Free- 
man's Journal,  a  town  traveller  for  a  coal  firm  on 
commission,  a  private  inquiry  agent,  a  clerk  in  the 
office  of  the  Sub-Sheriff  and  he  had  recently  become 
secretary  to  the  City  Coroner.  His  new  office  made 
him  professionally  interested  in  Mr  Kernan's  case. 


GRACE  195 

1  Pain  ?  Not  much,'  answered  Mr  Kernan. 
'  But  it's  so  sickening.  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to 
retch  off.' 

1  That's  the  boose,'  said  Mr  Cunningham  firmly. 

4  No,'  said  Mr  Kernan.  '  I  think  I  caught  a  cold 
on  the  car.  There's  something  keeps  coming  into 
my  throat,  phlegm  or ' 

1  Mucus,'  said  Mr  M'Coy. 

1  It  keeps  coming  like  from  down  in  my  throat ; 
sickening  thing.' 

4  Yes,  yes,'  said  Mr  M'Coy,  '  that's  the  thorax.' 

He  looked  at  Mr  Cunningham  and  Mr  Power 
at  the  same  time  with  an  air  of  challenge.  Mr 
Cunningham  nodded  his  head  rapidly  and  Mr  Power 
said : 

*  Ah,  well,  all's  well  that  ends  well.' 

4  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  old  man,'  said 
the  invalid. 

Mr  Power  waved  his  hand. 

4  Those  other  two  fellows  I  was  with ' 

4  Who  were  you  with  ?  '  asked  Mr  Cunningham. 

4  A  chap.  I  don't  know  his  name.  Damn  it  now, 
what's  his  name?    Little  chap  with  sandy  hair.  .  .  .' 

4  And  who  else  ?  ' 

'Harford.' 

4  Hm,'  said  Mr  Cunningham. 

When  Mr  Cunningham  made  that  remark  people 
were  silent.  It  was  known  that  the  speaker  had 
secret  sources  of  information.  In  this  case  the 
monosyllable  had  a  moral  intention.  Mr  Harford 
sometimes  formed  one  of  a  little  detachment  which 


196  DUBLINERS 

left  the  city  shortly  after  noon  on  Sunday  with  the 
purpose  of  arriving  as  soon  as  possible  at  some  public- 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city  where  its  members 
duly  qualified  themselves  as  bona-fide  travellers. 
But  his  fellow-travellers  had  never  consented  to 
overlook  his  origin.  He  had  begun  life  as  an  obscure 
financier  by  lending  small  sums  of  money  to  workmen 
at  usurious  interest.  Later  on  he  had  become  the 
partner  of  a  very  fat  short  gentleman,  Mr  Goldberg, 
in  the  Liffey  Loan  Bank.  Though  he  had  never 
embraced  more  than  the  Jewish  ethical  code  his 
fellow-Catholics,  whenever  they  had  smarted  in 
person  or  by  proxy  under  his  exactions,  spoke  of  him 
bitterly  as  an  Irish  Jew  and  an  illiterate  and  saw 
divine  disapproval  of  usury  made  manifest  through 
the  person  of  his  idiot  son.  At  other  times  they 
remembered  his  good  points. 

6 1  wonder  where  did  he  go  to,'  said  Mr  Kernan. 

He  wished  the  details  of  the  incident  to  remain 
vague.  He  wished  his  friends  to  think  there  had 
been  some  mistake,  that  Mr  Harford  and  he  had 
missed  each  other.  His  friends,  who  knew  quite 
well  Mr  Harford's  manners  in  drinking,  were  silent. 
Mr  Power  said  again  : 

1  All's  well  that  ends  well.' 

Mr  Kernan  changed  the  subject  at  once. 

4  That  was  a  decent  young  chap,  that  medical 
fellow,'  he  said.     4  Only  for  him ' 

1  O,  only  for  him,'  said  Mr  Power,  '  it  might  have 
been  a  case  of  seven  days  without  the  option  of  a 
fine.' 


GRACE  197 

4  Yes,  yes,5  said  Mr  Kernan,  trying  to  remember. 
1 1  remember  now  there  was  a  policeman.  Decent 
young  fellow,  he  seemed.    How  did  it  happen  at  all  ?  ' 

6  It  happened  that  you  were  peloothered,  Tom,' 
said  Mr  Cunningham  gravely. 

'  True  bill,'  said  Mr  Kernan,  equally  gravely. 

1 1  suppose  you  squared  the  constable,  Jack,'  said 
MrM'Coy. 

Mr  Power  did  not  relish  the  use  of  his  Christian 
name.  He  was  not  strait-laced  but  he  could  not 
forget  that  Mr  M'Coy  had  recently  made  a  crusade 
in  search  of  valises  and  portmanteaus  to  enable 
Mrs  M'Coy  to  fulfil  imaginary  engagements  in  the 
country.  More  than  he  resented  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  victimised  he  resented  such  low  playing  of  the 
game.  He  answered  the  question,  therefore,  as  if 
Mr  Kernan  had  asked  it. 

The  narrative  made  Mr  Kernan  indignant.  He 
was  keenly  conscious  of  his  citizenship,  wished  to 
live  with  his  city  on  terms  mutually  honourable  and 
resented  any  affront  put  upon  him  by  those  whom 
he  called  country  bumpkins. 

6  Is  this  what  we  pay  rates  for  ?  '  he  asked.  '  To 
feed  and  clothe  these  ignorant  bostooms  .  .  .  and 
they're  nothing  else.' 

Mr  Cunningham  laughed.  He  was  a  Castle  official 
only  during  office  hours. 

1  How  could  they  be  anything  else,  Tom  ?  '  he  said. 

He  assumed  a  thick  provincial  accent  and  said  in  a 
tone  of  command : 

'  65,  jjatchjyour  cabbage  ! ' 


198  DUBLINERS 

Everyone  laughed.  Mr  M'Coy,  who  wanted  to 
enter  the  conversation  by  any  door,  pretended  that 
he  had  never  heard  the  story.     Mr  Cunningham  said  : 

'  It  is  supposed — they  say,  you  know — to  take 
place  in  the  depot  where  they  get  these  thundering 
big  country  fellows,  omadhauns,  you  know,  to  drill. 
The  sergeant  makes  them  stand  in  a  row  against  the 
wall  and  hold  up  their  plates.' 

He  illustrated  the  story  by  grotesque  gestures. 

'  At  dinner,  you  know.  Then  he  has  a  bloody 
big  bowl  of  cabbage  before  him  on  the  table  and  a 
bloody  big  spoon  like  a  shovel.  He  takes  up  a  wad 
of  cabbage  on  the  spoon  and  pegs  it  across  the  room 
and  the  poor  deYils  have  to  try  and  catch  it  on  their 
plates  :  65,  catch  your  cabbage.9 

Everyone  laughed  again :  but  Mr  Kernan  was 
somewhat  indignant  still.  He  talked  of  writing  a 
letter  to  the  papers. 

1  These  yahoos  coming  up  here,'  he  said,  '  think 
they  can  boss  the  people.  I  needn't  tell  you,  Martin, 
what  kind  of  men  they  are.' 

Mr  Cunningham  gave  a  qualified  assent. 

1  It's  like  everything  else  in  this  world,'  he  said. 
4  You  get  some  bad  ones  and  you  get  some  good 
ones.' 

4  O  yes,  you  get  some  good  ones,  I  admit,'  said  Mr 
Kernan,  satisfied. 

4  It's  better  to  have  nothing  to  say  to  them,'  said 
Mr  M'Coy.     *  That's  my  opinion ! ' 

Mrs  Kernan  entered  the  room  and,  placing  a  tray 
on  the  table,  said  : 


GRACE  199 

4  Help  yourselves,  gentlemen.' 

Mr  Power  stood  up  to  officiate,  offering  her  his 
chair.  She  declined  it,  saying  that  she  was  ironing 
downstairs,  and,  after  having  exchanged  a  nod  with 
Mr  Cunningham  behind  Mr  Power's  back,  prepared 
to  leave  the  room.     Her  husband  called  out  to  her  : 

'  And  have  you  nothing  for  me,  duckie  ?  ' 

4  O,  you  !  The  back  of  my  hand  to  you  ! '  said 
Mrs  Kernan  tartly. 

Her  husband  called  after  her  : 

4  Nothing  for  poor  little  hubby  ! ' 

He  assumed  such  a  comical  face  and  voice  that 
the  distribution  of  the  bottles  of  stout  took  place 
amid  general  merriment. 

The  gentlemen  drank  from  their  glasses,  set  the 
glasses  again  on  the  table  and  paused.  Then  Mr 
Cunningham  turned  towards  Mr  Power  and  said 
casually  : 

4  On  Thursday  night,  you  said,  Jack  ?  ' 

4  Thursday,  yes,'  said  Mr  Power. 

4  Righto  ! '     said  Mr  Cunningham  promptly. 

4  We  can  meet  in  M'Auley's,'  said  Mr  M'Coy. 
4  That'll  be  the  most  convenient  place.' 

4  But  we  mustn't  be  late,'  said  Mr  Power  earnestly, 
4  because  it  is  sure  to  be  crammed  to  the  doors.' 

4  We  can  meet  at  half -seven,'  said  Mr  M4Coy. 

4  Righto  ! '  said  Mr  Cunningham. 

4  Half -seven  at  MAuley's  be  it  1 ' 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Mr  Kernan  waited 
to  see  whether  he  would  be  taken  into  his  friends' 
confidence.     Then  he  asked  : 


200  DUBLINERS 

6  What's  in  the  wind?' 

4  O,  it's  nothing,'  said  Mr  Cunningham.  c  It's 
only  a  little  matter  that  we're  arranging  about  for 
Thursday.' 

1  The  opera,  is  it  ?  '    said  Mr  Kernan. 

1  No,  no,'  said  Mr  Cunningham  in  an  evasive  tone, 
1  it's  just  a  little  .  .  .  spiritual  matter.' 

1  O,'  said  Mr  Kernan. 

There  was  silence  again.  Then  Mr  Power  said, 
point  blank  : 

'  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Tom,  we're  going  to  make 
a  retreat.' 

'  Yes,  that's  it,'  said  Mr  Cunningham,  '  Jack  and 
I  and  M'Coy  here — we're  all  going  to  wash  the  pot.' 

He  uttered  the  metaphor  with  a  certain  homely 
energy  and,  encouraged  by  his  own  voice,  proceeded  : 

I  You  see,  we  may  as  well  all  admit  we're  a  nice 
collection  of  scoundrels,  one  and  all.  I  say,  one  and 
all,'  he  added  with  gruff  charity  and  turning  to  Mr 
Power.     '  Own  up  now  ! ' 

I I  own  up,'  said  Mr  Power. 

'  And  I  own  up,'  said  Mr  M'Coy. 

6  So  we're  going  to  wash  the  pot  together,'  said 
Mr  Cunningham. 

A  thought  seemed  to  strike  him.  He  turned 
suddenly  to  the  invalid  and  said  : 

'  D'ye  know  what,  Tom,  has  just  occurred  to  me  ? 
You  might  join  in  and  we'd  have  a  four-handed  reel.' 

'  Good  idea,'  said  Mr  Power.  '  The  four  of  us 
together.' 

Mr  Kernan  was  silent.    The  proposal  conveyed 


GRACE  201 

very  little  meaning  to  his  mind  but,  understanding 
that  some  spiritual  agencies  were  about  to  concern 
themselves  on  his  behalf,  he  thought  he  owed  it  to 
his  dignity  to  show  a  stiff  neck.  He  took  no  part  in 
the  conversation  for  a  long  while  but  listened,  with 
an  air  of  calm  enmity,  while  his  friends  discussed  the 
Jesuits. 

' 1  haven't  such  a  bad  opinion  of  the  Jesuits,'  he 
said,  intervening  at  length.  '  They're  an  educated 
order.     I  believe  they  mean  well  too.' 

'  They're  the  grandest  order  in  the  Church,  Tom,' 
said  Mr  Cunningham,  with  enthusiasm.  '  The 
General  of  the  Jesuits  stands  next  to  the  Pope.' 

'  There's  no  mistake  about  it,'  said  Mr  M'Coy, 
'  if  you  want  a  thing  well  done  and  no  flies  about 
it  you  go  to  a  Jesuit.  They're  the  boyos  have 
influence.     I'll  tell  you  a  case  in  point.  .  .  .' 

'  The  Jesuits  are  a  fine  body  of  men,'  said  Mr  Power. 

'  It's  a  curious  thing,'  said  Mr  Cunningham, '  about 
the  Jesuit  Order.  Every  other  order  of  the  Church 
had  to  be  reformed  at  some  time  or  other  but  the 
Jesuit  Order  was  never  once  reformed.  It  never  fell 
away.' 

'  Is  that  so  ?  '   asked  Mr  M'Coy. 

'That's  a  fact,'  said  Mr  Cunningham.  'That's 
history.' 

'  Look  at  their  church,  too,'  said  Mr  Power. 
'  Look  at  the  congregation  they  have.' 

'The  Jesuits  cater  for  the  upper  classes,'  said 
Mr  M'Coy. 

'  Of  course,'  said  Mr  Power. 


202  DUBLINERS 

4  Yes,'  said  Mr  Kernan.  4  That's  why  I  have  a 
feeling  for  them.  It's  some  of  those  secular  priests, 
ignorant,  bumptious ' 

4  They're  all  good  men,'  said  Mr  Cunningham, 
'  each  in  his  own  way.  The  Irish  priesthood  is 
honoured  all  the  world  over.' 

4  O  yes,'  said  Mr  Power. 

'Not  like  some  of  the  other  priesthoods  on  the 
continent,'  said  Mr  M'Coy,  '  unworthy  of  the  name.' 

4  Perhaps  you're  right,'  said  Mr  Kernan,  relenting. 

4  Of  course  I'm  right,'  said  Mr  Cunningham. 
4 1  haven't  been  in  the  world  all  this  time  and  seen 
most  sides  of  it  without  being  a  judge  of  character.' 

The  gentlemen  drank  again,  one  following  another's 
example.  Mr  Kernan  seemed  to  be  weighing  some- 
thing in  his  mind.  He  was  impressed.  He  had  a 
high  opinion  of  Mr  Cunningham  as  a  judge  of 
character  and  as  a  reader  of  faces.  He  asked  for 
particulars. 

4  O,  it's  just  a  retreat,  you  know,'  said  Mr 
Cunningham.  4  Father  Purdon  is  giving  it.  It's 
for  business  men,  you  know.' 

4  He  won't  be  too  hard  on  us,  Tom,'  said  Mr  Power 
persuasively. 

4  Father  Purdon  ?  Father  Purdon  ?  '  said  the 
invalid. 

4  O,  you  must  know  him,  Tom,'  said  Mr  Cunning- 
ham stoutly.  4  Fine  jolly  fellow  !  He's  a  man  of 
the  world  like  ourselves.' 

4  Ah,  .  .  .  yes.  I  think  I  know  him.  Rather 
red  face;  tall.' 


GRACE  203 

'That's  the  man.' 

4  And  tell  me,  Martin.  .  .  .  Is  he  a  good  preacher?  ' 

'  Munno.  .  .  .  It's  not  exactly  a  sermon,  you 
know.  It's  just  a  kind  of  a  friendly  talk,  you  know, 
in  a  common-sense  way.' 

Mr  Kernan  deliberated.     Mr  M'Coy  said  : 

1  Father  Tom  Burke,  that  was  the  boy  ! ' 

4  O,  Father  Tom  Burke,'  said  Mr  Cunningham, 
*  that  was  a  born  orator.  Did  you  ever  hear  him, 
Tom?' 

1  Did  I  ever  hear  him  ! '  said  the  invalid,  nettled. 
4  Rather  !     I  heard  him.  .  .  .' 

4  And  yet  they  say  he  wasn't  much  of  a  theologian,' 
said  Mr  Cunningham. 

4  Is  that  so  ?  '  said  Mr  M'Coy. 

4  O,  of  course,  nothing  wrong,  you  know.  Only 
sometimes,  they  say,  he  didn't  preach  what  was 
quite  orthodox.' 

4  Ah!  .  .  .  he  was  a  splendid  man,' said  Mr  M4Coy. 

4 1  heard  him  once,'  Mr  Kernan  continued.  4 1 
forget  the  subject  of  his  discourse  now.  Crofton 
and  I  were  in  the  back  of  the  .  .  .  pit,  you  know 
.  .  .  the ' 

4  The  body,'  said  Mr  Cunningham. 

4  Yes,  in  the  back  near  the  door.  I  forget  now 
what.  .  .  .  O  yes,  it  was  on  the  Pope,  the  late  Pope. 
I  remember  it  well.  Upon  my  word  it  was  magni- 
ficent, the  style  of  the  oratory.  And  his  voice ! 
God !  hadn't  he  a  voice !  The  Prisoner  of  the  Vatican, 
he  called  him.  I  remember  Crofton  saying  to  me 
when  we  came  out ' 


204  DUBLINERS 

4  But  he's  an  Orangeman,  Crof  ton,  isn't  he  ? '  said 
Mr  Power. 

4  Course  he  is,'  said  Mr  Kernan,  'and  a  damned 
decent  Orangeman  too.  We  went  into  Butler's  in 
Moore  Street — faith,  I  was  genuinely  moved,  tell 
you  the  God's  truth — and  I  remember  well  his  very 
words.  Kernan,  he  said,  we  worship  at  different  altars, 
he  said,  but  our  belief  is  the  same.  Struck  me  as 
very  well  put.' 

'There's  a  good  deal  in  that,'  said  Mr  Power. 
'  There  used  always  be  crowds  of  Protestants  in  the 
chapel  when  Father  Tom  was  preaching.' 

4  There's  not  much  difference  between  us,'  said  Mr 
M'Coy.     '  We  both  believe  in ' 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

4  ....  in  the  Redeemer.  Only  they  don't 
believe  in  the  Pope  and  in  the  mother  of  God.' 

4  But,  of  course,'  said  Mr  Cunningham  quietly  and 
effectively,  4  our  religion  is  the  religion,  the  old, 
original  faith.' 

4  Not  a  doubt  of  it,'  said  Mr  Kernan  warmly. 

Mrs  Kernan  came  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom  and 
announced : 

4  Here's  a  visitor  for  you  ! ' 

4  Who  is  it  ?  ' 

4  Mr  Fogarty.' 

4  O,  come  in  !  come  in  ! ' 

A  pale  oval  face  came  forward  into  the  light.  The 
arch  of  its  fair  trailing  moustache  was  repeated  in  the 
fair  eyebrows  looped  above  pleasantly  astonished 
eyes.    Mr  Fogarty  was  a  modest  grocer.    He  had 


GRACE  205 

failed  in  business  in  a  licensed  house  in  the  city 
because  his  financial  condition  had  constrained  him 
to  tie  himself  to  second-class  distillers  and  brewers. 
He  had  opened  a  small  shop  on  Glasnevin  Road 
where,  he  flattered  himself,  his  manners  would 
ingratiate  him  with  the  housewives  of  the  district. 
He  bore  himself  with  a  certain  grace,  complimented 
little  children  and  spoke  with  a  neat  enunciation. 
He  was  not  without  culture. 

Mr  Fogarty  brought  a  gift  with  him,  a  half -pint  of 
special  whisky.  He  inqui red  politely  for  Mr  Kernan, 
placed  his  gift  on  the  table  and  sat  down  with  the 
company  on  equal  terms.  Mr  Kernan  appreciated 
the  gift  all  the  more  since  he  was  aware  that  there 
was  a  small  account  for  groceries  unsettled  between 
him  and  Mr  Fogarty.    He  said  : 

4 1  wouldn't  doubt  you,  old  man.  Open  that, 
Jack,  will  you  ?  ' 

Mr  Power  again  officiated.  Glasses  were  rinsed 
and  five  small  measures  of  whisky  were  poured  out. 
This  new  influence  enlivened  the  conversation.  Mr 
Fogarty,  sitting  on  a  small  area  of  the  chair,  was 
specially  interested. 

4  Pope  Leo  XIII.,'  said  Mr  Cunningham,  '  was  one 
of  the  lights  of  the  age.  His  great  idea,  you  know, 
was  the  union  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  Churches. 
That  was  the  aim  of  his  life.' 

'  I  often  heard  he  was  one  of  the  most  intellectual 
men  in  Europe,'  said  Mr  Power.  '  I  mean  apart  from 
his  being  Pope.' 

1  So  he  was,'  said  Mr  Cunningham, ;  if  not  the  most 


206  DUBLINERS 

so.  His  motto,  you  know,  as  Pope  was  Lux  upon  Lux 
— Light  upon  Light.9 

4  No,  no,'  said  Mr  Fogarty  eagerly.  '  I  think 
you're  wrong  there.  It  was  Lux  in  Tenebris,  I  think 
— Light  in  Darkness.9 

4  O  yes,'  said  Mr  M'Coy,  4  Tenebrae.9 

4  Allow  me,'  said  Mr  Cunningham  positively,  ;  it 
was  Lux  upon  Lux.  And  Pius  IX.  his  predecessor's 
motto  was  Crux  upon  Crux — that  is,  Cross  upon 
Cross — to  show  the  difference  between  their  two 
pontificates.' 

The  inference  was  allowed.  Mr  Cunningham 
continued. 

4  Pope  Leo,  you  know,  was  a  great  scholar  and  a 
poet.' 

4  He  had  a  strong  face,'  said  Mr  Kernan. 

4  Yes,'  said  Mr  Cunningham.  4  He  wrote  Latin 
poetry.' 

4  Is  that  so  ?  '   said  Mr  Fogarty. 

Mr  M4Coy  tasted  his  whisky  contentedly  and  shook 
his  head  with  a  double  intention,  saying  : 

4  That's  no  joke,  I  can  tell  you.' 

4  We  didn't  learn  that,  Tom,'  said  Mr  Power, 
following  Mr  M 'Coy's  example,  4  when  we  went  to 
the  penny-a-week  school.' 

4  There  was  many  a  good  man  went  to  the  penny-a- 
week  school  with  a  sod  of  turf  under  his  oxter,'  said 
Mr  Kernan  sententiously.  4  The  old  system  was  the 
best :  plain  honest  education.  None  of  your  modern 
trumpery.  .  .  .' 

4  Quite  right,'  said  Mr  Power. 


GRACE  207 

4  No  superfluities,'  said  Mr  Fogarty. 

He  enunciated  the  word  and  then  drank  gravely. 

1 1  remember  reading,'  said  Mr  Cunningham, 
4  that  one  of  Pope  Leo's  poems  was  on  the  invention 
of  the  photograph — in  Latin,  of  course.' 

4  On  the  photograph  1 '    exclaimed  Mr  Kernan. 

1  Yes,'  said  Mr  Cunningham. 

He  also  drank  from  his  glass. 

'Well,  you  know,'  said  Mr  M'Coy,  'isn't  the 
photograph  wonderful  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it  ?  ' 

1  O,  of  course,'  said  Mr  Power,  4  great  minds  can 
see  things.' 

1  As  the  poet  says :  Great  minds  are  very  near  to 
madness,9  said  Mr  Fogarty. 

Mr  Kernan  seemed  to  be  troubled  in  mind.  He 
made  an  effort  to  recall  the  Protestant  theology  on 
some  thorny  points  and  in  the  end  addressed  Mr 
Cunningham. 

4  Tell  me,  Martin,'  he  said.  4  Weren't  some  of 
the  popes — of  course,  not  our  present  man,  or 
his  predecessor,  but  some  of  the  old  popes — not 
exactly  .  .  .  you  know  ...  up  to  the  knocker  ?  ' 

There  was  a  silence.    Mr  Cunningham  said  : . 

4  O,  of  course,  there  were  some  bad  lots.  .  .  .  But 
the  astonishing  thing  is  this.  Not  one  of  them,  not 
the  biggest  drunkard,  not  the  most  .  .  .  out-and-out 
ruffian,  not  one  of  them  ever  preached  ex  cathedra 
a  word  of  false  doctrine.  Now  isn't  that  an  astonish- 
ing thing  ?  ' 

4  That  is,'  said  Mr  Kernan. 


208  DUBLINERS 

1  Yes,  because  when  the  Pope  speaks  ex  cathedra? 
Mr  Fogarty  explained,  '  he  is  infallible.' 
4  Yes,'  said  Mr  Cunningham. 

4  O,  I  know  about  the  infallibility  of  the  Pope.  I 
remember  I  was  younger  then.  ...  Or  was  it 
that ?' 

Mr  Fogarty  interrupted.  He  took  up  the  bottle 
and  helped  the  others  to  a  little  more.  Mr  M'Coy, 
seeing  that  there  was  not  enough  to  go  round,  pleaded 
that  he  had  not  finished  his  first  measure.  The 
others  accepted  under  protest.  The  light  music  of 
whisky  falling  into  glasses  made  an  agreeable  inter- 
lude. 

■  What's  that  you  were  saying,  Tom  ?  '  asked  Mr 
M'Coy. 

1  Papal  infallibility,'  said  Mr  Cunningham,  4  that 
was  the  greatest  scene  in  the  whole  history  of  the 
Church.' 

1  How  was  that,  Martin  ?  '   asked  Mr  Power. 

Mr  Cunningham  held  up  two  thick  fingers. 

4  In  the  sacred  college,  you  know,  of  cardinals 
and  archbishops  and  bishops  there  were  two  men 
who  held  out  against  it  while  the  others  were  all 
for  it.  The  whole  conclave  except  these  two  was 
unanimous.    No  !  They  wouldn't  have  it ! ' 

4  Ha!'  said  Mr  M'Coy. 

4  And  they  were  a  German  cardinal  by  the  name 
of  Dolling  ...  or  Dowling  .  .  .  or ' 

4  Dowling  was  no  German,  and  that's  a  sure  five,' 
said  Mr  Power,  laughing. 

4  Well,    this   great   German    cardinal,   whatever 


GRACE  209 

his  name  was,  was  one ;  and  the  other  was  John 
MacHale.' 

'What?'  cried  Mr  Kernan.  'Is  it  John  of 
Tuam  ? ' 

1  Are  you  sure  of  that  now  ?  -  asked  Mr  Fogarty 
dubiously.  '  I  thought  it  was  some  Italian  or 
American.5 

1  John  of  Tuam,'  repeated  Mr  Cunningham,  '  was 
the  man.' 

He  drank  and  the  other  gentlemen  followed  his 
lead.    Then  he  resumed  : 

4  There  they  were  at  it,  all  the  cardinals  and  bishops 
and  archbishops  from  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  and 
these  two  fighting  dog  and  devil  until  at  last  the  Pope 
himself  stood  up  and  declared  infallibility  a  dogma 
of  the  Church  ex  cathedra.  On  the  very  moment 
John  MacHale,  who  had  been  arguing  and  arguing 
against  it,  stood  up  and  shouted  out  with  the  voice 
of  a  lion:    "Credo!"' 

4  /  believe ! '  said  Mr  Fogarty. 

4  Credo  ! '  said  Mr  Cunningham.  4  That  showed 
the  faith  he  had.  He  submitted  the  moment  the 
Pope  spoke.' 

4  And  what  about  Dowling  ?  '  asked  Mr  M4Coy. 

4  The  German  cardinal  wouldn't  submit.  He  left 
the  church.' 

Mr  Cunningham's  words  had  built  up  the  vast 
image  of  the  church  in  the  minds  of  his  hearers. 
His  deep  raucous  voice  had  thrilled  them  as  it  uttered 
the  word  of  belief  and  submission.  When  Mrs 
Kernan  came  into  the  room  drying  her  hands  she 
o 


210  DUBLINERS 

came  into  a  solemn  company.  She  did  not  disturb 
the  silence,  but  leaned  over  the  rail  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed. 

*  I  once  saw  John  MacHale,'  said  Mr  Kernan, 
1  and  I'll  never  forget  it  as  long  as  I  live.' 

He  turned  towards  his  wife  to  be  confirmed. 

6 1  often  told  you  that  ?  ' 

Mrs  Kernan  nodded. 

'  It  was  at  the  unveiling  of  Sir  John  Gray's  statue. 
Edmund  Dwyer  Gray  was  speaking,  blathering  away, 
and  here  was  this  old  fellow,  crabbed-looking  old 
chap,  looking  at  him  from  under  his  bushy  eyebrows.' 

Mr  Kernan  knitted  his  brows  and,  lowering  his  head 
like  an  angry  bull,  glared  at  his  wife. 

4  God  ! '  he  exclaimed,  resuming  his  natural  face, 
'  I  never  saw  such  an  eye  in  a  man's  head.  It  was 
as  much  as  to  say  :  I  have  you  properly  taped,  my  lad. 
He  had  an  eye  like  a  hawk.' 

4  None  of  the  Grays  was  any  good,'  said  Mr  Power. 

There  was  a  pause  again.  Mr  Power  turned  to  Mrs 
Kernan  and  said  with  abrupt  joviality  : 

'  Well,  Mrs  Kernan,  we're  going  to  make  your  man 
here  a  good  holy  pious  and  God-fearing  Roman 
Catholic' 

He  swept  his  arm  round  the  company  inclusively. 

'  We're  all  going  to  make  a  retreat  together  and 
confess  our  sins — and  God  knows  we  want  it  badly.' 

'  I  don't  mind,'  said  Mr  Kernan,  smiling  a  little 
nervously. 

Mrs  Kernan  thought  it  would  be  wiser  to  conceal 
her  satisfaction.     So  she  said  : 


GRACE  211 

6 1  pity  the  poor  priest  that  has  to  listen  to  your 
tale.' 

Mr  Kernan's  expression  changed. 

4  If  he  doesn't  like  it,'  he  said  bluntly, 4  he  can  .  .  . 
do  the  other  thing.  I'll  just  tell  him  my  little  tale  of 
woe.     I'm  not  such  a  bad  fellow ' 

Mr  Cunningham  intervened  promptly. 

4  We'll  all  renounce  the  devil,'  he  said,  4  together, 
not  forgetting  his  works  and  pomps.' 

4  Get  behind  me,  Satan  ! '  said  Mr  Fogarty,  laugh- 
ing and  looking  at  the  others. 

Mr  Power  said  nothing.  He  felt  completely  out- 
generalled.  But  a  pleased  expression  flickered 
across  his  face. 

4  All  we  have  to  do,'  said  Mr  Cunningham,  4  is 
to  stand  up  with  lighted  candles  in  our  hands  and 
renew  our  baptismal  vows.' 

4  O,  don't  forget  the  candle,  Tom,'  said  Mr  M4Coy, 
4  whatever  you  do.' 

4  What  ?  '  said  Mr  Kernan.  4  Must  I  have  a 
candle  ?  ' 

4  O  yes,'  said  Mr  Cunningham. 

4  No,  damn  it  all,'  said  Mr  Kernan  sensibly,  4 1 
draw  the  line  there.  I'll  do  the  job  right  enough. 
I'll  do  the  retreat  business  and  confession,  and  .  .  . 
all  that  business.  But  ...  no  candles  !  No,  damn 
it  all,  I  bar  the  candles  I ' 

He  shook  his  head  with  farcical  gravity. 

4  Listen  to  that ! '  said  his  wife. 

4 1  bar  the  candles,'  said  Mr  Kernan,  conscious 
of  having  created  an  effect  on  his  audience  and 


212  DUBLINERS 

continuing  to  shake  his  head  to  and  fro.     '  I  bar 
the  magic-lantern  business.' 

Everyone  laughed  heartily. 

4  There's  a  nice  Catholic  for  you  ! '  said  his  wife. 

4  No  candles  ! '  repeated  Mr  Kernan  obdurately. 
4  That's  off ! ' 
•  •••«..  • 

The  transept  of  the  Jesuit  Church  in  Gardiner 
Street  was  almost  full ;  and  still  at  every  moment 
gentlemen  entered  from  the  side-door  and,  directed 
by  the  lay-brother,  walked  on  tiptoe  along  the  aisles 
until  they  found  seating  accommodation.  The 
gentlemen  were  all  well  dressed  and  orderly.  The 
light  of  the  lamps  of  the  church  fell  upon  an  assembly 
of  black  clothes  and  white  collars,  relieved  here  and 
there  by  tweeds,  on  dark  mottled  pillars  of  green 
marble  and  on  lugubrious  canvases.  The  gentlemen 
sat  in  the  benches,  having  hitched  their  trousers 
slightly  above  their  knees  and  laid  their  hats  in 
security.  They  sat  well  back  and  gazed  formally  at 
the  distant  speck  of  red  light  which  was  suspended 
before  the  high  altar. 

In  one  of  the  benches  near  the  pulpit  sat  Mr 
Cunningham  and  Mr  Kernan.  In  the  bench  behind 
sat  Mr  M'Coy  alone  :  and  in  the  bench  behind  him 
sat  Mr  Power  and  Mr  Fogarty.  Mr  M'Coy  had  tried 
unsuccessfully  to  find  a  place  in  the  bench  with  the 
others  and,  when  the  party  had  settled  down  in  the 
form  of  a  quincunx,  he  had  tried  unsuccessfully  to 
make  comic  remarks.  As  these  had  not  been  well 
received  he  had  desisted.    Even  he  was  sensible  of 


GRACE  213 

the  decorous  atmosphere  and  even  he  began  to 
respond  to  the  religious  stimulus.  In  a  whisper 
Mr  Cunningham  drew  Mr  Kernan's  attention  to  Mr 
Harford,  the  moneylender,  who  sat  some  distance 
off,  and  to  Mr  Fanning,  the  registration  agent  and 
mayor  maker  of  the  city,  who  was  sitting  immediately 
under  the  pulpit  beside  one  of  the  newly  elected 
councillors  of  the  ward.  To  the  right  sat  old 
Michael  Grimes,  the  owner  of  three  pawnbroker's 
shops,  and  Dan  Hogan's  nephew,  who  was  up  for  the 
job  in  the  Town  Clerk's  office.  Farther  in  front  sat 
Mr  Hendrick,  the  chief  reporter  of  The  Freeman's 
Journal,  and  poor  O'Carroll,  an  old  friend  of  Mr 
Kernan's,  who  had  been  at  one  time  a  considerable 
commercial  figure.  Gradually,  as  he  recognised 
familiar  faces,  Mr  Kernan  began  to  feel  more  at  home. 
His  hat,  which  had  been  rehabilitated  by  his  wife, 
rested  upon  his  knees.  Once  or  twice  he  pulled  down 
his  cuffs  with  one  hand  while  he  held  the  brim  of  his 
hat  lightly,  but  firmly,  with  the  other  hand. 

A  powerful-looking  figure,  the  upper  part  of 
which  was  draped  with  a  white  surplice,  was  observed 
to  be  struggling  up  into  the  pulpit.  Simultaneously 
the  congregation  unsettled,  produced  handkerchiefs 
and  knelt  upon  them  with  care.  Mr  Kernan  followed 
the  general  example.  The  priest's  figure  now  stood 
upright  in  the  pulpit,  two-thirds  of  its  bulk,  crowned 
by  a  massive  red  face,  appearing  above  the  balustrade. 

Father  Purdon  knelt  down,  turned  towards  the 
red  speck  of  light  and,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  prayed.     After  an  interval  he  uncovered  his 


214  DUBLINERS 

face  and  rose.  The  congregation  rose  also  and 
settled  again  on  its  benches.  Mr  Kernan  restored 
his  hat  to  its  original  position  on  his  knee  and 
presented  an  attentive  face  to  the  preacher.  The 
preacher  turned  back  each  wide  sleeve  of  his  surplice 
with  an  elaborate  large  gesture  and  slowly  surveyed 
the  array  of  faces.    Then  he  said  : 

4  For  the  children  of  this  world  are  wiser  in  their 
generation  than  the  children  of  light.  Wherefore 
make  unto  yourselves  friends  out  of  the  mammon  of 
iniquity  so  that  when  you  die  they  may  receive  you 
into  everlasting  dwellings.' 

Father  Purdon  developed  the  text  with  resonant 
assurance.  It  was  one  of  the  most  difficult  texts 
in  all  the  Scriptures,  he  said,  to  interpret  properly. 
It  was  a  text  which  might  seem  to  the  casual 
observer  at  variance  with  the  lofty  morality  else- 
where preached  by  Jesus  Christ.  But,  he  told  his 
hearers,  the  text  had  seemed  to  him  specially  adapted 
for  the  guidance  of  those  whose  lot  it  was  to  lead  the 
life  of  the  world  and  who  yet  wished  to  lead  that  life 
not  in  the  manner  of  worldlings.  It  was  a  text  for 
business  men  and  professional  men.  Jesus  Christ, 
with  His  divine  understanding  of  every  cranny  of 
our  human  nature,  understood  that  all  men  were 
not  called  to  the  religious  life,  that  by  far  the  vast 
majority  were  forced  to  live  in  the  world  and,  to  a 
certain  extent,  for  the  world  :  and  in  this  sentence  He 
designed  to  give  them  a  word  of  counsel,  setting 


GRACE  215 

before  them  as  exemplars  in  the  religious  life  those 
very  worshippers  of  Manmon  who  were  of  all  men  the 
least  solicitous  in  matters  religious. 

He  told  his  hearers  that  he  was  there  that  evening 
for  no  terrifying,  no  extravagant  purpose ;  but  as 
a  man  of  the  world  speaking  to  his  fellow-men.  He 
came  to  speak  to  business  men  and  he  would  speak 
to  them  in  a  businesslike  way.  If  he  might  use  the 
metaphor,  he  said,  he  was  their  spiritual  accountant ; 
and  he  wished  each  and  every  one  of  this  hearers  to 
open  his  books,  the  books  of  his  spiritual  life,  and  see 
if  they  tallied  accurately  with  conscience. 

Jesus  Christ  was  not  a  hard  taskmaster.  He 
understood  our  little  failings,  understood  the  weak- 
ness of  our  poor  fallen  nature,  understood  the 
temptations  of  this  life.  We  might  have  had,  we  all 
had  from  time  to  time,  our  temptations  :  we  might 
have,  we  all  had,  our  failings.  But  one  thing  only, 
he  said,  he  would  ask  of  his  hearers.  And  that  was  : 
to  be  straight  and  manly  with  God.  If  their  accounts 
tallied  in  every  point  to  say  : 

4  Well,  I  have  verified  my  accounts.  I  find  all 
well.' 

But  if,  as  might  happen,  there  were  some  dis- 
crepancies, to  admit  the  truth,  to  be  frank  and  say 
like  a  man : 

1  Well,  I  have  looked  into  my  accounts.  I  find 
this  wrong  and  this  wrong.  But,  with  God's  grace, 
I  will  rectify  this  and  this.  I  will  set  right  my 
accounts.' 


THE  DEAD 

Lily,  the  caretaker's  daughter,  was  literally  run 
off  her  feet.  Hardly  had  she  brought  one  gentleman 
into  the  little  pantry  behind  the  office  on  the  ground 
floor  and  helped  him  off  with  his  overcoat  than  the 
wheezy  hall- door  bell  clanged  again  and  she  had  to 
scamper  along  the  bare  hallway  to  let  in  another  guest. 
It  was  well  for  her  she  had  not  to  attend  to  the  ladies 
also.  But  Miss  Kate  and  Miss  Julia  had  thought  of 
that  and  had  converted  the  bathroom  upstairs  into 
a  ladies'  dressing-room.  Miss  Kate  and  Miss  Julia 
were  there,  gossiping  and  laughing  and  fussing, 
walking  after  each  other  to  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
peering  down  over  the  banisters  and  calling  down  to 
Lily  to  ask  her  who  had  come. 

It  was  always  a  great  affair,  the  Misses  Morkan's 
annual  dance.  Everybody  who  knew  them  came 
to  it,  members  of  the  family,  old  friends  of  the 
family,  the  members  of  Julia's  choir,  any  of  Kate's 
pupils  that  were  grown  up  enough  and  even  some 
of  Mary  Jane's  pupils  too.  Never  once  had  it  fallen 
flat.  For  years  and  years  it  had  gone  off  in  splendid 
style  as  long  as  any  one  could  remember  ;  ever  since 
Kate  and  Julia,  after  the  death  of  their  brother  Pat, 
had  left  the  house  in  Stoney  Batter  and  taken  Mary 

216 


THE  DEAD  217 

Jane,  their  only  niece,  to  live  with  them  in  the  dark 
gaunt  house  on  Usher's  Island,  the  upper  part  of 
which  they  had  rented  from  Mr  Fulham,  the  corn- 
factor  on  the  ground  floor.  That  was  a  good  thirty 
years  ago  if  it  was  a  day.  Mary  Jane,  who  was  then 
a  little  girl  in  short  clothes,  was  now  the  main  prop  of 
the  household  for  she  had  the  organ  in  Haddington 
Road.  She  had  been  through  the  Academy  and  gave 
a  pupils'  concert  every  year  in  the  upper  room  of  the 
Antient  Concert  Rooms.  Many  of  her  pupils 
belonged  to  better-class  families  on  the  Kingstown 
and  Dalkey  line.  Old  as  they  were,  her  aunts  also 
did  their  share.  Julia,  though  she  was  quite  grey, 
was  still  the  leading  soprano  in  Adam  and  Eve's, 
and  Kate,  being  too  feeble  to  go  about  much,  gave 
music  lessons  to  beginners  on  the  old  square  piano 
in  the  back  room.  Lily,  the  caretaker's  daughter, 
did  housemaid's  work  for  them.  Though  their  life 
was  modest  they  believed  in  eating  well ;  the  best 
of  everything:  diamond-bone  sirloins,  three- shilling 
tea  and  the  best  bottled  stout.  But  Lily  seldom  made 
a  mistake  in  the  orders  so  that  she  got  on  well  with 
her  three  mistresses.  They  were  fussy,  that  was  all. 
But  the  only  thing  they  would  not  stand  was  back 
answers. 

Of  course  they  had  good  reason  to  be  fussy  on 
such  a  night.  And  then  it  was  long  after  ten  o'clock 
and  yet  there  was  no  sign  of  Gabriel  and  his  wife. 
Besides  they  were  dreadfully  afraid  that  Freddy 
Malins  might  turn  up  screwed.  They  would  not 
wish  for  worlds  that  any  of  Mary  Jane's  pupils  should 


218  DUBLINERS 

see  him  under  the  influence  ;  and  when  he  was  like 
that  it  was  sometimes  very  hard  to  manage  him. 
Freddy  Malins  always  came  late  but  they  wondered 
what  could  be  keeping  Gabriel :  and  that  was  what 
brought  them  every  two  minutes  to  the  banisters 
to  ask  Lily  had  Gabriel  or  Freddy  come. 

1  O,  Mr  Conroy,'  said  Lily  to  Gabriel  when  she 
opened  the  door  for  him,  '  Miss  Kate  and  Miss  Julia 
thought  you  were  never  coming.  Good-night,  Mrs 
Conroy.' 

1  I'll  engage  they  did,'  said  Gabriel,  '  but  they 
forget  that  my  wife  here  takes  three  mortal  hours 
to  dress  herself.' 

He  stood  on  the  mat,  scraping  the  snow  from 
his  goloshes,  while  Lily  led  his  wife  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  and  called  out :      ■ 

'Miss  Kate,  here's  Mrs  Conroy.' 

Kate  and  Julia  came  toddling  down  the  dark 
stairs  at  once.  Both  of  them  kissed  Gabriel's  wife, 
said  she  must  be  perished  alive  and  asked  was  Gabriel 
with  her. 

1  Here  I  am  as  right  as  the  mail,  Aunt  Kate  !  Go 
on  up.  I'll  follow,'  called  out  Gabriel  from  the 
dark. 

He  continued  scraping  his  feet  vigorously  while 
the  three  women  went  upstairs,  laughing,  to  the 
ladies'  dressing-room.  A  light  fringe  of  snow  lay 
like  a  cape  on  the  shoulders  of  his  overcoat  and 
like  toecaps  on  the  toes  o  his  goloshes  ;  and,  as  the 
buttons  of  his  overcoat  slipped  with  a  squeaking 
noise    through    the    snow-stiffened   frieze,   a    cold 


THE  DEAD  219 

fragrant  air  from  out-of-doors  escaped  from  crevices 
and  folds. 

'  Is  it  snowing  again,  Mr  Conroy  ?  ■  asked  Lily. 

She  had  preceded  him  into  the  pantry  to  help 
him  off  with  his  overcoat.  Gabriel  smiled  at  the 
three  syllables  she  had  given  his  surname  and  glanced 
at  her.  She  was  a  slim,  growing  girl,  pale  in  com- 
plexion and  with  hay-coloured  hair.  The  gas  in 
the  pantry  make  her  look  still  paler.  Gabriel  had 
known  her  when  she  was  a  child  and  used  to  sit  on 
the  lowest  step  nursing  a  rag  doll. 

'  Yes,  Lily,'  he  answered,  '  and  I  think  we're  in 
for  a  night  of  it.' 

He  looked  up  at  the  pantry  ceiling,  which  was 
shaking  with  the  stamping  and  shuffling  of  feet 
on  the  floor  above,  listened  for  a  moment  to  the 
piano  and  then  glanced  at  the  girl,  who  was  folding 
his  overcoat  carefully  at  the  end  of  a  shelf. 

'  Tell  me,  Lily,'  he  said  in  a  friendly  tone,  '  do 
you  still  go  to  school  ?  ' 

'  O  no,  sir,'  she  answered.  '  I'm  done  schooling 
this  year  and  more.' 

1  O,  then,'  said  Gabriel  gaily,6 1  suppose  we'll  be 
going  to  your  wedding  one  of  these  fine  days  with 
your  young  man,  eh  ?  ' 

The  girl  glanced  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder 
and  said  with  great  bitterness  : 

'The  men  that  is  now  is  only  all  palaver  and 
what  they  can  get  out  of  you.' 

Gabriel  coloured  as  if  he  felt  he  had  made  a  mistake 
and,  without  looking  at  her,  kicked  off  his  goloshes 


220  DUBLINERS 

and  flicked  actively  with  his  muffler  at  his  patent- 
leather  shoes. 

He  was  a  stout  tallish  young  man.  The  high 
colour  of  his  cheeks  pushed  upwards  even  to  his 
forehead  where  it  scattered  itself  in  a  few  formless 
patches  of  pale  red ;  and  on  his  hairless  face  there 
scintillated  restlessly  the  polished  lenses  and  bright 
gilt  rims  of  the  glasses  which  screened  his  delicate 
and  restless  eyes.  His  glossy  black  hair  was  parted 
in  the  middle  and  brushed  in  a  long  curve  behind 
his  ears  where  it  curled  slightly  beneath  the  groove 
left  by  his  hat. 

When  he  had  flicked  lustre  into  his  shoes  he  stood 
up  and  pulled  his  waistcoat  down  more  tightly  on 
his  plump  body.  Then  he  took  a  coin  rapidly  from 
his  pocket. 

4  O  Lily,'  he  said,  thrusting  it  into  her  hands, 
'  it's  Christmas-time,  isn't  it  ?  Just  .  .  .  here's  a 
little.  .  .  .' 

He  walked  rapidly  towards  the  door. 

6  O  no,  sir ! '  cried  the  girl,  following  him.  *  Really, 
sir,  I  wouldn't  take  it.' 

4  Christmas  -  time  !  Christmas  -  time  ! '  said 
Gabriel,  almost  trotting  to  the  stairs  and  waving 
his  hand  to  her  in  deprecation. 

The  girl,  seeing  that  he  had  gained  the  stairs, 
called  out  after  him  : 

'  Well,  thank  you,  sir.' 

He  waited  outside  the  drawing-room  door  until 
the  waltz  should  finish,  listening  to  the  skirts  that 
swept  against  it  and  to  the  shuffling  of  feet.    He  was 


THE  DEAD  221 

still  discomposed  by  the  girl's  bitter  and  sudden 
retort.  It  had  cast  a  gloom  over  him  which  he  tried 
to  dispel  by  arranging  his  cuffs  and  the  bows  of  his 
tie.  Then  he  took  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  little 
paper  and  glanced  at  the  headings  he  had  made  for 
his  speech.  He  was  undecided  about  the  lines  from 
Robert  Browning  for  he  feared  they  would  be  above 
the  heads  of  his  hearers.  Some  quotation  that  they 
could  recognise  from  Shakespeare  or  from  the  Melodies 
would  be  better.  The  indelicate  clacking  of  the 
men's  heels  and  the  shuffling  of  their  soles  reminded 
him  that  their  grade  of  culture  differed  from  his. 
He  would  only  make  himself  ridiculous  by  quoting 
poetry  to  them  which  they  could  not  understand. 
They  would  think  that  he  was  airing  his  superior 
education.  He  would  fail  with  them  just  as  he  had 
failed  with  the  girl  in  the  pantry.  He  had  taken  up 
a  wrong  tone.  His  whole  speech  was  a  mistake  from 
first  to  last,  an  utter  failure. 

Just  then  his  aunts  and  his  wife  came  out  of  the 
ladies'  dressing-room.  His  aunts  were  two  small 
plainly  dressed  old  women.  Aunt  Julia  was  an 
inch  or  so  the  taller.  Her  hair,  drawn  low  over  the 
tops  of  her  ears,  was  grey ;  and  grey  also,  with 
darker  shadows,  was  her  large  flaccid  face.  Though 
she  was  stout  in  build  and  stood  erect  her  slow  eyes 
and  parted  lips  gave  her  the  appearance  of  a  woman 
who  did  not  know  where  she  was  or  where  she  was 
going.  Aunt  Kate  was  more  vivacious.  Her  face, 
healthier  than  her  sister's,  was  all  puckers  and  creases, 
like  a  shrivelled  red  apple,  and  her  hair,  braided  in 


222  DUBLINERS 

the  same  old-fashioned  way,  had  not  lost  its  ripe  nut 
colour. 

They  both  kissed  Gabriel  frankly.  He  was  their 
favourite  nephew,  the  son  of  their  dead  elder  sister, 
Ellen,  who  had  married  T.  J.  Conroy  of  the  Port 
and  Docks. 

'  Gretta  tells  me  you're  not  going  to  take  a  cab 
back  to  Monkstown  to-night,  Gabriel,'  said  Aunt 
Kate. 

'  No,'  said  Gabriel,  turning  to  his  wife,  '  we  had 
quite  enough  of  that  last  year,  hadn't  we  ?  Don't 
you  remember,  Aunt  Kate,  what  a  cold  Gretta  got 
out  of  it  ?  Cab  windows  rattling  all  the  way,  and 
the  east  wind  blowing  in  after  we  passed  Merrion. 
Very  jolly  it  was.  Gretta  caught  a  dreadful 
cold.' 

Aunt  Kate  frowned  severely  and  nodded  her  head 
at  every  word. 

1  Quite  right,  Gabriel,  quite  right,'  she  said.  '  You 
can't  be  too  careful.' 

'  But  as  for  Gretta  there,'  said  Gabriel,  '  she'd 
walk  home  in  the  snow  if  she  were  let.' 

Mrs  Conroy  laughed. 

'Don't  mind  him,  Aunt  Kate,'  she  said.  'He's 
really  an  awful  bother,  what  with  green  shades  for 
Tom's  eyes  at  night  and  making  him  do  the  dumb- 
bells, and  forcing  Eva  to  eat  the  stirabout.  The 
poor  child  !  And  she  simply  hates  the  sight  of  it ! . . . 
O,  but  you'll  never  guess  what  he  makes  me  wear 
now  ! ' 

She  broke  out  into  a  peal  of  laughter  and  glanced 


THE  DEAD  223 

at  her  husband,  whose  admiring  and  happy  eyes 
had  been  wandering  from  her  dress  to  her  face  and 
hair.  The  two  aunts  laughed  heartily  too,  for 
Gabriel's  solicitude  was  a  standing  joke  with  them. 

*  Goloshes  ! '  said  Mrs  Conroy.  *  That's  the  latest. 
Whenever  it's  wet  underfoot  I  must  put  on  my 
goloshes.  To-night  even  he  wanted  me  to  put  them 
on,  but  I  wouldn't.  The  next  thing  he'll  buy  me  will 
be  a  diving  suit.' 

Gabriel  laughed  nervously  and  patted  his  tie 
reassuringly  while  Aunt  Kate  nearly  doubled  herself, 
so  heartily  did  she  enjoy  the  joke.  The  smile  soon 
faded  from  Aunt  Julia's  face  and  her  mirthless  eyes 
were  directed  towards  her  nephew's  face.  After  a 
pause  she  asked  : 

4  And  what  are  goloshes,  Gabriel  ?  ' 

1  Goloshes,  Julia  ! '  exclaimed  her  sister.  4  Good- 
ness me,  don't  you  know  what  goloshes  are  ?  You 
wear  them  over  your  .  .  .  over  your  boots,  Gretta, 
isn't  it  ?  ' 

4  Yes,'  said  Mrs  Conroy.  4  Guttapercha  things. 
We  both  have  a  pair  now.  Gabriel  says  everyone 
wears  them  on  the  continent.' 

4  O,  on  the  continent,'  murmured  Aunt  Julia, 
nodding  her  head  slowly. 

Gabriel  knitted  his  brows  and  said,  as  if  he  were 
slightly  angered : 

4  It's  nothing  very  wonderful  but  Gretta  thinks 
it  very  funny  because  she  says  the  word  reminds 
her  of  Christy  Minstrels.' 

4  But  tell  me,  Gabriel,'  said  Aunt  Kate,  with  brisk 


224  DUBLINERS 

tact.     4  Of   course,   you've   seen  about   the   room. 
Gretta  was  saying  .  .  .' 

4  O,  the  room  is  all  right,'  replied  Gabriel.  4  I've 
taken  one  in  the  Gresham.' 

4  To  be  sure,'  said  Aunt  Kate,  '  by  far  the  best 
thing  to  do.  And  the  children,  Gretta,  you're  not 
anxious  about  them  ?  ' 

*  O,  for  one  night,'  said  Mrs  Conroy.  '  Besides, 
Bessie  will  look  after  them.' 

4 To  be  sure,'  said  Aunt  Kate  again.  'What  a 
comfort  it  is  to  have  a  girl  like  that,  one  you  can 
depend  on  !  There's  that  Lily,  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  has  come  over  her  lately.  She's  not  the 
girl  she  was  at  all.' 

Gabriel  was  about  to  ask  his  aunt  some  questions 
on  this  point  but  she  broke  off  suddenly  to  gaze 
after  her  sister  who  had  wandered  down  the  stairs 
and  was  craning  her  neck  over  the  banisters. 

1  Now,  I  ask  you,'  she  said,  almost  testily,  '  where 
is  Julia  going.  Julia !  Julia !  Where  are  you 
going  ?  ' 

Julia,  who  had  gone  half  way  down  one  flight, 
came  back  and  announced  blandly : 

4  Here's  Freddy.' 

At  the  same  moment  a  clapping  of  hands  and  a 
final  nourish  of  the  pianist  told  that  the  waltz  had 
ended.  The  drawing-room  door  was  opened  from 
within  and  some  couples  came  out.  Aunt  Kate 
drew  Gabriel  aside  hurriedly  and  whispered  into 
his  ear : 

4  Slip  down,  Gabriel,  like  a  good  fellow  and  see  if 


THE  DEAD  225 

he's  all  right,  and  don't  let  him  up  if  he's  screwed. 
I'm  sure  he's  screwed.     I'm  sure  he  is.' 

Gabriel  went  to  the  stairs  and  listened  over  the 
banisters.  He  could  hear  two  persons  talking  in 
the  pantry.  Then  he  recognised  Freddy  Malins' 
laugh.     He  went  down  the  stairs  noisily. 

4  It's  such  a  relief,'  said  Aunt  Kate  to  Mrs  Conroy, 
4  that  Gabriel  is  here.  I  always  feel  easier  in  my 
mind  when  he's  here.  .  .  .  Julia,  there's  Miss  Daly 
and  Miss  Power  will  take  some  refreshment.  Thanks 
for  your  beautiful  waltz,  Miss  Daly.  It  made  lovely 
time.' 

A  tall  wizen-faced  man,  with  a  stiff  grizzled  mous- 
tache and  swarthy  skin,  who  was  passing  out  with 
his  partner  said  : 

4  And  may  we  have  some  refreshment,  too,  Miss 
Morkan  ?  ' 

4  Julia,'  said  Aunt  Kate  summarily,  4  and  here's 
Mr  Browne  and  Miss  Furlong.  Take  them  in,  Julia, 
with  Miss  Daly  and  Miss  Power.' 

4  I'm  the  man  for  the  ladies,'  said  Mr  Browne, 
pursing  his  lips  until  his  moustache  bristled  and 
smiling  in  all  his  wrinkles.  4  You  know,  Miss  Morkan, 
the  reason  they  are  so  fond  of  me  is ' 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but,  seeing  that 
Aunt  Kate  was  out  of  earshot,  at  once  led  the  three 
young  ladies  into  the  back  room.  The  middle  of  the 
room  was  occupied  by  two  square  tables  placed  end 
to  end,  and  on  these  Aunt  Julia  and  the  caretaker 
were  straightening  and  smoothing  a  large  cloth. 
On  the  sideboard  were  arrayed  dishes  and  plates, 
p 


226  DUBLINERS 

and  glasses  and  bundles  of  knives  and  forks  and 
spoons.  The  top  of  the  closed  square  piano  served 
also  as  a  sideboard  for  viands  and  sweets.  At  a 
smaller  sideboard  in  one  corner  two  young  men  were 
standing,  drinking  hop-bitters. 

Mr  Browne  led  his  charges  thither  and  invited 
them  all,  in  jest,  to  some  ladies'  punch,  hot,  strong 
and  sweet.  As  they  said  they  never  took  anything 
strong  he  opened  three  bottles  of  lemonade  for 
them.  Then  he  asked  one  of  the  young  men  to 
move  aside,  and,  taking  hold  of  the  decanter,  filled 
out  for  himself  a  goodly  measure  of  whisky.  The 
young  men  eyed  him  respectfully  while  he  took  a 
trial  sip. 

'  God  help  me,'  he  said,  smiling,  '  it's  the  doctor's 
orders.' 

His  wizened  face  broke  into  a  broader  smile,  and 
the  three  young  ladies  laughed  in  musical  echo  to 
his  pleasantry,  swaying  their  bodies  to  and  fro,  with 
nervous  jerks  of  their  shoulders.     The  boldest  said  : 

'  O,  now,  Mr  Browne,  I'm  sure  the  doctor  never 
ordered  anything  of  the  kind.' 

Mr  Browne  took  another  sip  of  his  whisky  and  said, 
with  sidling  mimicry  : 

4  Well,  you  see,  I'm  like  the  famous  Mrs  Cassidy, 
who  is  reported  to  have  said  :  "  Now,  Mary  Grimes, 
if  I  don't  take  it,  make  me  take  it,  for  I  feel  I  want 
it."  ' 

His  hot  face  had  leaned  forward  a  little  too  con- 
fidentially and  he  had  assumed  a  very  low  Dublin 
accent  so  that  the  young  ladies,  with  one  instinct, 


THE  DEAD  227 

received  his  speech  in  silence.  Miss  Furlong,  who 
was  one  of  Mary  Jane's  pupils,  asked  Miss  Daly 
what  was  the  name  of  the  pretty  waltz  she  had 
played  ;  and  Mr  Browne,  seeing  that  he  was  ignored, 
turned  promptly  to  the  two  young  men  who  were 
more  appreciative. 

A  red-faced  young  woman,  dressed  in  pansy, 
came  into  the  room,  excitedly  clapping  her  hands 
and  crying  : 

1  Quadrilles  !     Quadrilles  ! ' 

Close  on  her  heels  came  Aunt  Kate,  crying  : 

4  Two  gentlemen  and  three  ladies,  Mary  Jane  ! ' 

'  0,  here's  Mr  Bergin  and  Mr  Kerrigan,'  said  Mary 
Jane.  '  Mr  Kerrigan,  will  you  take  Miss  Power  ? 
Miss  Furlong,  may  I  get  you  a  partner,  Mr  Bergin. 
O,  that'll  just  do  now.' 

1  Three  ladies,  Mary  Jane,'  said  Aunt  Kate. 

The  two  young  gentlemen  asked  the  ladies  if  they 
might  have  the  pleasure,  and  Mary  Jane  turned  to 
Miss  Daly. 

'  O,  Miss  Daly,  you're  really  awfully  good,  after 
playing  for  the  last  two  dances,  but  really  we're  so 
short  of  ladies  to-night.' 

'  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,  Miss  Morkan.' 

4  But  I've  a  nice  partner  for  you,  Mr  Bartell 
D'Arcy,  the  tenor.  I'll  get  him  to  sing  later  on. 
All  Dublin  is  raving  about  him.' 

'  Lovely  voice,  lovely  voice  ! '  said  Aunt  Kate. 

As  the  piano  had  twice  begun  the  prelude  to  the 
first  figure  Mary  Jane  led  her  recruits  quickly  from 
the  room.    They  had  hardly  gone  when  Aunt  Julia 


228  DUBLINERS 

wandered  slowly  into  the  room,  looking  behind  her 
at  something. 

1  What  is  the  matter,  Julia  ?  '  asked  Aunt  Kate 
anxiously.     '  Who  is  it  ?  ' 

Julia,  who  was  carrying  in  a  column  of  table- 
napkins,  turned  to  her  sister  and  said,  simply,  as  if 
the  question  had  surprised  her : 

'  It's  only  Freddy,  Kate,  and  Gabriel  with  him.' 

In  fact  right  behind  her  Gabriel  could  be  seen 
piloting  Freddy  Malins  across  the  landing.  The 
latter,  a  young  man  of  about  forty,  was  of  Gabriel's 
size  and  build,  with  very  round  shoulders.  His  face 
was  fleshy  ana  pallid,  touched  with  colour  only  at  the 
thick  hanging  lobes  of  his  ears  and  at  the  wide  wings 
of  his  nose.  He  had  coarse  features,  a  blunt  nose, 
a  convex  and  receding  brow,  tumid  and  protruded 
lips.  His  heavy-lidded  eyes  and  the  disorder  of  his 
scanty  hair  made  him  look  sleepy.  He  was  laughing 
heartily  in  a  high  key  at  a  story  which  he  had  been 
telling  Gabriel  on  the  stairs  and  at  the  same  time 
rubbing  the  knuckles  of  his  left  fist  backwards  and 
forwards  into  his  left  eye. 

1  Good- evening,  Freddy,'  said  Aunt  Julia. 

Freddy  Malins  bade  the  Misses  Morkan  good- 
evening  in  what  seemed  an  offhand  fashion  by 
reason  of  the  habitual  catch  in  his  voice  and  then, 
seeing  that  Mr  Browne  was  grinning  at  him  from 
the  sideboard,  crossed  the  room  on  rather  shaky 
legs  and  began  to  repeat  in  an  undertone  the  story 
he  had  just  told  to  Gabriel. 

'  He's  not  so  bad,  is  he  ? '  said  Aunt  Kate  to  Gabriel. 


THE  DEAD  229 

Gabriel's  brows  were  dark  but  he  raised  them 
quickly  and  answered  : 

4  O  no,  hardly  noticeable.' 

'  Now,  isn't  he  a  terrible  fellow ! '  she  said.  '  And  his 
poor  mother  made  him  take  the  pledge  on  New  Year's 
Eve.    But  come  on,  Gabriel,  into  the  drawing-room.' 

Before  leaving  the  room  with  Gabriel  she  signalled 
to  Mr  Browne  by  frowning  and  shaking  her  fore- 
finger in  warning  to  and  fro.  Mr  Browne  nodded 
in  answer  and,  when  she  had  gone,  said  to  Freddy 
Malins : 

'Now,  then,  Teddy,  I'm  going  to  fill  you  out  a 
good  glass  of  lemonade  just  to  buck  you  up.' 

Freddy  Malins,  who  was  nearing  the  climax  of 
his  story,  waved  the  offer  aside  impatiently  but 
Mr  Browne,  having  first  called  Freddy  Malins' 
attention  to  a  disarray  in  his  dress,  filled  out  and 
handed  him  a  full  glass  of  lemonade.  Freddy 
Malins'  left  hand  accepted  the  glass  mechanically, 
his  right  hand  being  engaged  in  the  mechanical 
readjustment  of  his  dress.  Mr  Browne,  whose  face 
was  once  more  wrinkling  with  mirth,  poured  out  for 
himself  a  glass  of  whisky  while  Freddy  Malins 
exploded,  before  he  had  well  reached  the  climax 
of  his  story,  in  a  kink  of  high-pitched  bronchitic 
laughter  and,  setting  down  his  untasted  and  over- 
flowing glass,  began  to  rub  the  knuckles  of  his  left 
fist  backwards  and  forwards  into  his  left  eye,  repeat- 
ing words  of  his  last  phrase  as  well  as  his  fit  of 
laughter  would  allow  him. 


230  DUBLINERS 

Gabriel  could  not  listen  while  Mary  Jane  was 
playing  her  Academy  piece,  full  of  runs  and  difficult 
passages,  to  the  hushed  drawing-room.  He  liked 
music  but  the  piece  she  was  playing  had  no  melody 
for  him  and  he  doubted  whether  it  had  any  melody 
for  the  other  listeners,  though  they  had  begged 
Mary  Jane  to  play  something.  Four  young  men, 
who  had  come  from  the  refreshment-room  to  stand 
in  the  doorway  at  the  sound  of  the  piano,  had  gone 
away  quietly  in  couples  after  a  few  minutes.  The 
only  persons  who  seemed  to  follow  the  music  were 
Mary  Jane  herself,  her  hands  racing  along  the  key- 
board or  lifted  from  it  at  the  pauses  like  those  of  a 
priestess  in  momentary  imprecation,  and  Aunt  Kate 
standing  at  her  elbow  to  turn  the  page. 

Gabriel's  eyes,  irritated  by  the  floor,  which 
glittered  with  beeswax  under  the  heavy  chandelier, 
wandered  to  the  wall  above  the  piano.  A  picture 
of  the  balcony  scene  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  hung  there 
and  beside  it  was  a  picture  of  the  two  murdered 
princes  in  the  Tower  which  Aunt  Julia  had  worked 
in  red,  blue  and  brown  wools  when  she  was  a  girl. 
Probably  in  the  school  they  had  gone  to  as  girls  that 
kind  of  work  had  been  taught  for  one  year.  His 
mother  had  worked  for  him  as  a  birthday  present  a 
waistcoat  of  purple  tabinet,  with  little  foxes'  heads 
upon  it,  lined  with  brown  satin  and  having  round 
mulberry  buttons.  It  was  strange  that  his  mother 
had  had  no  musical  talent  though  Aunt  Kate  used 
to  call  her  the  brains  carrier  of  the  Morkan  family. 
Both  she  and  Julia  had  always  seemed  a  little  proud 


THE  DEAD  231 

of  their  serious  and  matronly  sister.  Her  photo- 
graph stood  before  the  pierglass.  She  held  an  open 
book  on  her  knees  and  was  pointing  out  something 
in  it  to  Constantine  who,  dressed  in  a  man-o'-war 
suit,  lay  at  her  feet.  It  was  she  who  had  chosen 
the  names  for  her  sons  for  she  was  very  sensible 
of  the  dignity  of  family  life.  Thanks  to  her, 
Constantine  was  now  senior  curate  in  Balbriggan 
and,  thanks  to  her,  Gabriel  himself  had  taken  his 
degree  in  the  Royal  University.  A  shadow  passed 
over  his  face  as  he  remembered  her  sullen  opposition 
to  his  marriage.  Some  slighting  phrases  she  had 
used  still  rankled  in  his  memory ;  she  had  once 
spoken  of  Gretta  as  being  country  cute  and  that  was 
not  true  of  Gretta  at  all.  It  was  Gretta  who  had 
nursed  her  during  all  her  last  long  illness  in  their 
house  at  Monkstown. 

He  knew  that  Mary  Jane  must  be  near  the  end  of 
her  piece  for  she  was  playing  again  the  opening 
melody  with  runs  of  scales  after  every  bar  and 
while  he  waited  for  the  end  the  resentment  died 
down  in  his  heart.  The  piece  ended  with  a  trill 
of  octaves  in  the  treble  and  a  final  deep  octave 
in  the  bass.  Great  applause  greeted  Mary  Jane  as, 
blushing  and  rolling  up  her  music  nervously,  she 
escaped  from  the  room.  The  most  vigorous  clapping 
came  from  the  four  young  men  in  the  doorway 
who  had  gone  away  to  the  refreshment- room  at  the 
beginning  of  the  piece  but  had  come  back  when  the 
piano  had  stopped. 

Lancers   were  arranged.     Gabriel  found  himself 


232  DUBLINERS 

partnered  with  Miss  Ivors.  She  was  a  frank- 
mannered  talkative  young  lady,  with  a  freckled 
face  and  prominent  brown  eyes.  She  did  not  wear 
a  low-cut  bodice  and  the  large  brooch  which  was 
fixed  in  the  front  of  her  collar  bore  on  it  an  Irish 
device  and  motto. 

When  they  had  taken  their  places  she  said 
abruptly  : 

4  I  have  a  crow  to  pluck  with  you.' 

'  With  me  ?  '   said  Gabriel. 

She  nodded  her  head  gravely. 

*  What  is  it  ?  '  asked  Gabriel,  smiling  at  her 
solemn  manner. 

'  Who  is  G.  C.  ? '  answered  Miss  Ivors,  turning 
her  eyes  upon  him. 

Gabriel  coloured  and  was  about  to  knit  his  brows, 
as  if  he  did  not  understand,  when  she  said  bluntly  : 

4  O,  innocent  Amy  !  I  have  found  out  that  you 
write  for  The  Daily  Express.  Now,  aren't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself  ?  ' 

•  Why  should  I  be  ashamed  of  myself  ? '  asked 
Gabriel,  blinking  his  eyes  and  trying  to  smile. 

'Well,  I'm  ashamed  of  you,'  said  Miss  Ivors 
frankly.  '  To  say  you'd  write  for  a  paper  like  that. 
I  didn't  think  you  were  a  West  Briton.' 

A  look  of  perplexity  appeared  on  Gabriel's  face. 
It  was  true  that  he  wrote  a  literary  column  every 
Wednesday  in  The  Daily  Express,  for  which  he 
was  paid  fifteen  shillings.  But  that  did  not  make 
him  a  West  Briton  surely.  The  books  he  received 
for  review  were  almost  more  welcome   than   the 


THE  DEAD  233 

paltry  cheque.  He  loved  to  feel  the  covers  and 
turn  over  the  pages  of  newly  printed  books.  Nearly 
every  day  when  his  teaching  in  the  college  was 
ended  he  used  to  wander  down  the  quays  to  the 
second-hand  booksellers,  to  Hickey's  on  Bachelor's 
Walk,  to  Webb's  or  Massey's  on  Aston's  Quay, 
or  to  O'Clohissey's  in  the  by-street.  He  did  not 
know  how  to  meet  her  charge.  He  wanted  to  say 
that  literature  was  above  politics.  But  they  were 
friends  of  many  years'  standing  and  their  careers 
had  been  parallel,  first  at  the  university  and  then  as 
teachers  :  he  could  not  risk  a  grandiose  phrase  with 
her.  He  continued  blinking  his  eyes  and  trying  to 
smile  and  murmured  lamely  that  he  saw  nothing 
political  in  writing  reviews  of  books. 

When  their  turn  to  cross  had  come  he  was  still 
perplexed  and  inattentive.  Miss  Ivors  promptly 
took  his  hand  in  a  warm  grasp  and  said  in  a  soft 
friendly  tone  : 

1  Of  course,  I  was  only  joking.  Come,  we  cross 
now.' 

When  they  were  together  again  she  spoke  of  the 
University  question  and  Gabriel  felt  more  at  ease. 
A  friend  of  hers  had  shown  her  his  review  of 
Browning's  poems.  That  was  how  she  had  found  out 
the  secret :  but  she  liked  the  review  immensely. 
Then  she  said  suddenly  : 

'  O,  Mr  Conroy,  will  you  come  for  an  excursion 
to  the  Aran  Isles  this  summer  ?  We're  going  to 
stay  there  a  whole  month.  It  will  be  splendid  out 
in  the  Atlantic.    You  ought  to  come.    Mr  Clancy 


234  DUBLINERS 

is  coming,  and  Mr  Kilkelly  and  Kathleen  Kearney. 
It  would  be  splendid  for  Gretta  too  if  she'd  come. 
She's  from  Connacht,  isn't  she  ?  ' 

1  Her  people  are,'  said  Gabriel  shortly. 

'  But  you  will  come,  won't  you  ?  '  said  Miss  Ivors, 
laying  her  warm  hand  eagerly  on  his  arm. 

1  The  fact  is,'  said  Gabriel,  4 1  have  just  arranged 
to  go ' 

'  Go  where  ?  '  asked  Miss  Ivors. 

4  Well,  you  know,  every  year  I  go  for  a  cycling 
tour  with  some  fellows  and  so ' 

1  But  where  ?  '  asked  Miss  Ivors. 

'Well,  we  usually  go  to  France  or  Belgium  or 
perhaps  Germany,'  said  Gabriel  awkwardly. 

1  And  why  do  you  go  to  France  and  Belgium,'  said 
Miss  Ivors,  '  instead  of  visiting  your  own  land  ? ' 

J  Well,'  said  Gabriel,  4  it's  partly  to  keep  in  touch 
with  the  languages  and  partly  for  a  change.' 

1  And  haven't  you  your  own  language  to  keep  in 
touch  with — Irish  ?  '  asked  Miss  Ivors. 

1  Well,'  said  Gabriel, '  if  it  comes  to  that,  you  know, 
Irish  is  not  my  language.' 

Their  neighbours  had  turned  to  listen  to  the 
cross-examination.  Gabriel  glanced  right  and  left 
nervously  and  tried  to  keep  his  good  humour  under 
the  ordeal  which  was  making  a  blush  invade  his 
forehead. 

'  And  haven't  you  your  own  land  to  visit,'  con- 
tinued Miss  Ivors,  '  that  you  know  nothing  of,  your 
own  people,  and  your  own  country  ?  ' 

8  O,    to   tell    you    the    truth,'    retorted    Gabriel 


THE  DEAD  235 

suddenly,  '  I'm  sick  of  my  own  country,  sick  of 
it!' 

1  Why  ?  '  asked  Miss  Ivors. 

Gabriel  did  not  answer  for  his  retort  had  heated  him. 

4  Why  ?  '  repeated  Miss  Ivors. 

They  had  to  go  visiting  together  and,  as  he  had 
not  answered  her,  Miss  Ivors  said  warmly  : 

'  Of  course,  you've  no  answer.' 

Gabriel  tried  to  cover  his  agitation  by  taking  part 
in  the  dance  with  great  energy.  He  avoided  her 
eyes  for  he  had  seen  a  sour  expression  on  her  face. 
But  when  they  met  in  the  long  chain  he  was  surprised 
to  feel  his  hand  firmly  pressed.  She  looked  at  him 
from  under  her  brows  for  a  moment  quizzically 
until  he  smiled.  Then,  just  as  the  chain  was  about 
to  start  again,  she  stood  on  tiptoe  and  whispered 
into  his  ear  : 

4  West  Briton  ! ' 

When  the  lancers  were  over  Gabriel  went  away 
to  a  remote  corner  of  the  room  where  Freddy  Malins' 
mother  was  sitting.  She  was  a  stout  feeble  old 
woman  with  white  hair.  Her  voice  had  a  catch  in 
it  like  her  son's  and  she  stuttered  slightly.  She 
had  been  told  that  Freddy  had  come  and  that  he 
was  nearly  all  right.  Gabriel  asked  her  whether 
she  had  had  a  good  crossing.  She  lived  with  her 
married  daughter  in  Glasgow  and  came  to  Dublin 
on  a  visit  once  a  year.  She  answered  placidly  that 
she  had  had  a  beautiful  crossing  and  that  the  captain 
had  been  most  attentive  to  her.  She  spoke  also 
of  the  beautiful  house  her  daughter  kept  in  Glasgow, 


236  DUBLINERS 

and  of  all  the  friends  they  had  there.  While  her 
tongue  rambled  on  Gabriel  tried  to  banish  from  his 
mind  all  memory  of  the  unpleasant  incident  with 
Miss  Ivors.  Of  course  the  girl  or  woman,  or  what- 
ever she  was,  was  an  enthusiast  but  there  was  a 
time  for  all  things.  Perhaps  he  ought  not  to  have 
answered  her  like  that.  But  she  had  no  right  to  call 
him  a  West  Briton  before  people,  even  in  joke.  She 
had  tried  to  make  him  ridiculous  before  people, 
heckling  him  and  staring  at  him  with  her  rabbit's  eyes. 

He  saw  his  wife  making  her  way  towards  him 
through  the  waltzing  couples.  When  she  reached 
him  she  said  into  his  ear : 

*  Gabriel,  Aunt  Kate  wants  to  know  won't  you 
carve  the  goose  as  usual.  Miss  Daly  will  carve  the 
ham  and  I'll  do  the  pudding.' 

'  All  right,'  said  Gabriel. 

1  She's  sending  in  the  younger  ones  first  as  soon 
as  this  waltz  is  over  so  that  we'll  have  the  table  to 
ourselves.' 

'  Were  you  dancing  ?  '  asked  Gabriel. 

'  Of  course  I  was.  Didn't  you  see  me  ?  What 
row  had  you  with  Molly  Ivors  ?  ' 

'  No  row.    Why  ?    Did  she  say  so  ?  ' 

'  Something  like  that.  I'm  trying  to  get  that 
Mr  D'Arcy  to  sing.    He's  full  of  conceit,  I  think.' 

'  There  was  no  row,'  said  Gabriel  moodily,  '  only 
she  wanted  me  to  go  for  a  trip  to  the  west  of  Ireland 
and  I  said  I  wouldn't.' 

His  wife  clasped  her  hands  excitedly  and  gave 
a  little  jump. 


THE  DEAD  237 

1  O,  do  go,  Gabriel,'  she  cried.  '  I'd  love  to  see 
Galway  again.' 

4  You  can  go  if  you  like,'  said  Gabriel  coldly. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  turned  to 
Mrs  Malins  and  said  : 

4  There's  a  nice  husband  for  you,  Mrs  Malins.' 

While  she  was  threading  her  way  back  across  the 
room  Mrs  Malins,  without  adverting  to  the  interrup- 
tion, went  on  to  tell  Gabriel  what  beautiful  places 
there  were  in  Scotland  and  beautiful  scenery.  Her 
son-in-law  brought  them  every  year  to  the  lakes 
and  they  used  to  go  fishing.  Her  son-in-law  was 
a  splendid  fisher.  One  day  he  caught  a  beautiful 
big  fish  and  the  man  in  the  hotel  cooked  it  for  their 
dinner. 

Gabriel  hardly  heard  what  she  said.  Now  that 
supper  was  coming  near  he  began  to  think  again 
about  his  speech  and  about  the  quotation.  When 
he  saw  Freddy  Malins  coming  across  the  room  to 
visit  his  mother  Gabriel  left  the  chair  free  for  him 
and  retired  into  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  The 
room  had  already  cleared  and  from  the  back  room 
came  the  clatter  of  plates  and  knives.  Those  who 
still  remained  in  the  drawing-room  seemed  tired  of 
dancing  and  were  conversing  quietly  in  little  groups. 
Gabriel's  warm  trembling  fingers  tapped  the  cold 
pane  of  the  window.  How  cool  it  must  be  outside  ! 
How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  walk  out  alone,  first 
along  by  the  river  and  then  through  the  park  !  The 
snow  would  be  lying  on  the  branches  of  the  trees 
and  forming  a  bright  cap  on  the  top  of  the  Wellington 


238  DUBLINERS 

Monument.    How  much  more  pleasant  it  would  be 
there  than  at  the  supper-table  ! 

He  ran  over  the  headings  of  his  speech :  Irish 
hospitality,  sad  memories,  the  Three  Graces,  Paris, 
the  quotation  from  Browning.  He  repeated  to 
himself  a  phrase  he  had  written  in  his  review: 
4  One  feels  that  one  is  listening  to  a  thought- 
tormented  music'  Miss  Ivors  had  praised  the 
review.  Was  she  sincere  ?  Had  she  really  any 
life  of  her  own  behind  all  her  propagandism  ? 
There  had  never  been  any  ill-feeling  between  them 
until  that  night.  It  unnerved  him  to  think  that 
she  would  be  at  the  supper-table,  looking  up  at  him 
while  he  spoke  with  her  critical  quizzing  eyes. 
Perhaps  she  would  not  be  sorry  to  see  him  fail  in 
his  speech.  An  idea  came  into  his  mind  and  gave 
him  courage.  He  would  say,  alluding  to  Aunt  Kate 
and  Aunt  Julia :  '  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  the 
generation  which  is  now  on  the  wane  among  us 
may  have  had  its  faults  but  for  my  part  I  think 
it  had  certain  qualities  of  hospitality,  of  humour, 
of  humanity,  which  the  new  and  very  serious  and 
hypereducated  generation  that  is  growing  up  around 
us  seems  to  me  to  lack.'  Very  good  :  that  was  one 
for  Miss  Ivors.  What  did  he  care  that  his  aunts 
were  only  two  ignorant  old  women  ? 

A  murmur  in  the  room  attracted  his  attention. 
Mr  Browne  was  advancing  from  the  door,  gallantly 
escorting  Aunt  Julia,  who  leaned  upon  his  arm, 
smiling  and  hanging  her  head.  An  irregular 
musketry  of  applause  escorted  her  also  as  far  as  the 


THE  DEAD  239 

piano  and  then,  as  Mary  Jane  seated  herself  on  the 
stool,  and  Aunt  Julia,  no  longer  smiling,  half  turned 
so  as  to  pitch  her  voice  fairly  into  the  room,  gradually 
ceased.  Gabriel  recognised  the  prelude.  It  was 
that  of  an  old  song  of  Aunt  Julia's — Arrayed  for  the 
Bridal.  Her  voice,  strong  and  clear  in  tone,  attacked 
with  great  spirit  the  runs  which  embellish  the  air  and 
though  she  sang  very  rapidly  she  did  not  miss  even 
the  smallest  of  the  grace  notes.  To  follow  the  voice, 
without  looking  at  the  singer's  face,  was  to  feel  and 
share  the  excitement  of  swift  and  secure  flight. 
Gabriel  applauded  loudly  with  all  the  others  at  the 
close  of  the  song  and  loud  applause  was  borne  in 
from  the  invisible  supper-table.  It  sounded  so 
genuine  that  a  little  colour  struggled  into  Aunt  Julia's 
face  as  she  bent  to  replace  in  the  music-stand  the  old 
leather-bound  song-book  that  had  her  initials  on  the 
cover.  Freddy  Malins,  who  had  listened  with  his 
head  perched  sideways  to  hear  her  better,  was  still 
applauding  when  everyone  else  had  ceased  and  talking 
animatedly  to  his  mother  who  nodded  her  head 
gravely  and  slowly  in  acquiescence.  At  last,  when 
he  could  clap  no  more,  he  stood  up  suddenly  and 
hurried  across  the  room  to  Aunt  Julia  whose  hand 
he  seized  and  held  in  both  his  hands,  shaking  it  when 
words  failed  him  or  the  catch  in  his  voice  proved  too 
much  for  him. 

4 1  was  just  telling  my  mother,'  he  said,  '  I  never 
heard  you  sing  so  well,  never.  No,  I  never  heard 
your  voice  so  good  as  it  is  to-night.  Now  !  Would 
you  believe  that  now  ?    That's  the  truth.    Upon 


240  DUBLINERS 

my  word  and  honour  that's  the  truth.  I  never 
heard  your  voice  sound  so  fresh  and  so  ...  so 
clear  and  fresh,  never.' 

Aunt  Julia  smiled  broadly  and  murmured  some- 
thing about  compliments  as  she  released  her  hand 
from  his  grasp.  Mr  Browne  extended  his  open  hand 
towards  her  and  said  to  those  who  were  near  him  in 
the  manner  of  a  showman  introducing  a  prodigy  to 
an  audience : 

\  Miss  Julia  Morkan,  my  latest  discovery  ! ' 

He  was  laughing  very  heartily  at  this  himself 
when  Freddy  Malins  turned  to  him  and  said  : 

4  Well,  Browne,  if  you're  serious  you  might  make 
a  worse  discovery.  All  I  can  say  is  I  never  heard  her 
sing  half  so  well  as  long  as  I  am  coming  here.  And 
that's  the  honest  truth.' 

1  Neither  did  I,'  said  Mr  Browne.  '  I  think  her 
voice  has  greatly  improved.' 

Aunt  Julia  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said  with 
meek  pride  : 

'  Thirty  years  ago  I  hadn't  a  bad  voice  as  voices 

go-' 

4 1  often  told  Julia,'  said  Aunt  Kate  emphatically, 
6  that  she  was  simply  thrown  away  in  that  choir. 
But  she  never  would  be  said  by  me.' 

She  turned  as  if  to  appeal  to  the  good  sense  of  the 
others  against  a  refractory  child  while  Aunt  Julia 
gazed  in  front  of  her,  a  vague  smile  of  reminiscence 
playing  on  her  face. 

'  No,'  continued  Aunt  Kate,  *  she  wouldn't  be 
said  or  led  by  anyone,  slaving  there  in  that  choir 


THE  DEAD  241 

night   and   day,   night   and   day.     Six   o'clock  on 
Christmas  morning  !    And  all  for  what  ?  ' 

'  Well,  isn't  it  for  the  honour  of  God,  Aunt  Kate  ?  ' 
asked  Mary  Jane,  twisting  round  on  the  piano-stool 
and  smiling. 

Aunt  Kate  turned  fiercely  on  her  niece  and  said : 

'  I  know  all  about  the  honour  of  God,  Mary  Jane, 
but  I  think  it's  not  at  all  honourable  for  the  pope 
to  turn  out  the  women  out  of  the  choirs  that  have 
slaved  there  all  their  lives  and  put  little  whipper- 
snappers  of  boys  over  their  heads.  I  suppose  it  is 
for  the  good  of  the  Church  if  the  pope  does  it.  But 
it's  not  just,  Mary  Jane,  and  it's  not  right.' 

She  had  worked  herself  into  a  passion  and  would 
have  continued  in  defence  of  her  sister  for  it  was 
a  sore  subject  with  her  but  Mary  Jane,  seeing  that 
all  the  dancers  had  come  back,  intervened  pacifically  : 

1  Now,  Aunt  Kate,  you're  giving  scandal  to  Mr 
Browne  who  is  of  the  other  persuasion.' 

Aunt  Kate  turned  to  Mr  Browne,  who  was 
grinning  at  this  allusion  to  his  religion,  and  said 
hastily : 

4  O,  I  don't  question  the  pope's  being  right.  I'm 
only  a  stupid  old  woman  and  I  wouldn't  presume 
to  do  such  a  thing.  But  there's  such  a  thing  as 
common  everyday  politeness  and  gratitude.  And 
if  I  were  in  Julia's  place  I'd  tell  that  Father  Healy 
straight  up  to  his  face  .  .  .' 

1  And  besides,  Aunt  Kate,'  said  Mary  Jane,  '  we 
really  are  all  hungry  and  when  we  are  hungry  we  are 
all  very  quarrelsome.' 
Q 


242  DUBLINERS 

'And  when  we  are  thirsty  we  are  also  quarrel- 
some,' added  Mr  Browne. 

'  So  that  we  had  better  go  to  supper,'  said  Mary 
Jane,  '  and  finish  the  discussion  afterwards.' 

On  the  landing  outside  the  drawing-room  Gabriel 
found  his  wife  and  Mary  Jane  trying  to  persuade 
Miss  Ivors  to  stay  for  supper.  But  Miss  Ivors, 
who  had  put  on  her  hat  and  was  buttoning  her  cloak, 
would  not  stay.  She  did  not  feel  in  the  least  hungry 
and  she  had  already  overstayed  her  time. 

4  But  only  for  ten  minutes,  Molly,'  said  Mrs 
Conroy.     c  That  won't  delay  you.' 

'  To  take  a  pick  itself,'  said  Mary  Jane,  •  after  all 
your  dancing.' 

'  I  really  couldn't,'  said  Miss  Ivors. 

'  I  am  afraid  you  didn't  enjoy  yourself  at  all,'  said 
Mary  Jane  hopelessly. 

1  Ever  so  much,  I  assure  you,'  said  Miss  Ivors, 
'  but  you  really  must  let  me  run  off  now.' 

1  But  how  can  you  get  home  ? '  asked  Mrs 
Conroy. 

'  O,  it's  only  two  steps  up  the  quay.' 

Gabriel  hesitated  a  moment  and  said  : 

c  If  you  will  allow  me,  Miss  Ivors,  I'll  see  you  home 
if  you  really  are  obliged  to  go.' 

But  Miss  Ivors  broke  away  from  them. 

'  I  won't  hear  of  it,'  she  cried.  '  For  goodness 
sake  go  in  to  your  suppers  and  don't  mind  me.  I'm 
quite  well  able  to  take  care  of  myself.' 

4  Well,  you're  the  comical  girl,  Molly,'  said  Mrs 
Conroy  frankly. 


THE  DEAD  243 

4  Beannacht  libh?  cried  Miss  Ivors,  with  a  laugh,  as 
she  ran  down  the  staircase. 

Mary  Jane  gazed  after  her,  a  moody  puzzled 
expression  on  her  face,  while  Mrs  Conroy  leaned  over 
the  banisters  to  listen  for  the  hall-door.  Gabriel 
asked  himself  was  he  the  cause  of  her  abrupt  de- 
parture. But  she  did  not  seem  to  be  in  ill  humour  : 
she  had  gone  away  laughing.  He  stared  blankly 
down  the  staircase. 

At  the  moment  Aunt  Kate  came  toddling  out  of  the 
supper-room,  almost  wringing  her  hands  in  despair. 

'  Where  is  Gabriel  ?  '  she  cried.  '  Where  on 
earth  is  Gabriel  ?  There's  everyone  waiting  in  there, 
stage  to  let,  and  nobody  to  carve  the  goose  ! ' 

1  Here  I  am,  Aunt  Kate  ! '  cried  Gabriel,  with 
sudden  animation,  '  ready  to  carve  a  flock  of  geese, 
if  necessary.' 

A  fat  brown  goose  lay  at  one  end  of  the  table 
and  at  the  other  end,  on  a  bed  of  creased  paper 
strewn  with  sprigs  of  parsley,  lay  a  great  ham, 
stripped  of  its  outer  skin  and  peppered  over  with 
crust  crumbs,  a  neat  paper  frill  round  its  shin  and 
beside  this  was  a  round  of  spiced  beef.  Between 
these  rival  ends  ran  parallel  lines  of  side-dishes  : 
two  little  minsters  of  jelly,  red  and  yellow ;  a 
shallow  dish  full  of  blocks  of  blancmange  and  red 
jam,  a  large  green  leaf -shaped  dish  with  a  stalk- 
shaped  handle,  on  which  lay  bunches  of  purple 
raisins  and  peeled  almonds,  a  companion  dish  on 
which  lay  a  solid  rectangle  of  Smyrna  figs,  a  dish 
of   custard  topped  with  grated   nutmeg,   a   small 


244  DUBLINERS 

bowl  full  of  chocolates  and  sweets  wrapped  in  gold 
and  silver  papers  and  a  glass  vase  in  which  stood 
some  tall  celery  stalks.  In  the  centre  of  the  table 
there  stood,  as  sentries  to  a  f  mit-stand  which  upheld 
a  pyramid  of  oranges  and  American  apples,  two 
squat  old-fashioned  decanters  of  cut  glass,  one 
containing  port  and  the  other  dark  sherry.  On  the 
closed  square  piano  a  pudding  in  a  huge  yellow  dish 
lay  in  waiting  and  behind  it  were  three  squads  of 
bottles  of  stout  and  ale  and  minerals,  drawn  up 
according  to  the  colours  of  their  uniforms,  the  first 
two  black,  with  brown  and  red  labels,  the  third  and 
smallest  squad  white,  with  transverse  green  sashes. 

Gabriel  took  his  seat  boldly  at  the  head  of  the  table 
and,  having  looked  to  the  edge  of  the  carver,  plunged 
his  fork  firmly  into  the  goose.  He  felt  quite  at  ease 
now  for  he  was  an  expert  carver  and  liked  nothing 
better  than  to  find  himself  at  the  head  of  a  well- 
laden  table. 

4  Miss  Furlong,  what  shall  I  send  you  ? '  he  asked. 
1 A  wing  or  a  slice  of  the  breast  ?  ' 

1  Just  a  small  slice  of  the  breast.' 

4  Miss  Higgins,  what  for  you  ?  ' 

4  O,  anything  at  all,  Mr  Conroy.' 

While  Gabriel  and  Miss  Daly  exchanged  plates 
of  goose  and  plates  of  ham  and  spiced  beef  Lily 
went  from  guest  to  guest  with  a  dish  of  hot  floury 
potatoes  wrapped  in  a  white  napkin.  This  was 
Mary  Jane's  idea  and  she  had  also  suggested  apple 
sauce  for  the  goose  but  Aunt  Kate  had  said  that  plain 
roast  goose  without  any  apple  sauce  had  always 


THE  DEAD  245 

been  good  enough  for  her  and  she  hoped  she  might 
never  eat  worse.  Mary  Jane  waited  on  her  pupils 
and  saw  that  they  got  the  best  slices  and  Aunt  Kate 
and  Aunt  Julia  opened  and  carried  across  from  the 
piano  bottles  of  stout  and  ale  for  the  gentlemen 
and  bottles  of  minerals  for  the  ladies.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  confusion  and  laughter  and  noise,  the 
noise  of  orders  and  counter-orders,  of  knives  and  forks, 
of  corks  and  glass-stoppers.  Gabriel  began  to  carve 
second  helpings  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  the  first 
round  without  serving  himself.  Everyone  protested 
loudly  so  that  he  compromised  by  taking  a  long 
draught  of  stout  for  he  had  found  the  carving  hot 
work.  Mary  Jane  settled  down  quietly  to  her 
supper  but  Aunt  Kate  and  Aunt  Julia  were  still 
toddling  round  the  table,  walking  on  each  other's 
heels,  getting  in  each  other's  way  and  giving  each 
other  unheeded  orders.  Mr  Browne  begged  of 
them  to  sit  down  and  eat  their  suppers  and  so  did 
Gabriel  but  they  said  they  were  time  enough  so  that, 
at  last,  Freddy  Malins  stood  up  and,  capturing  Aunt 
Kate,  plumped  her  down  on  her  chair  amid  general 
laughter. 

When  everyone  had  been  well  served  Gabriel  said, 
smiling : 

'Now,  if  anyone  wants  a  little  more  of  what 
vulgar  people  call  stuffing  let  him  or  her  speak.' 

A  chorus  of  voices  invited  him  to  begin  his  own 
supper  and  Lily  came  forward  with  three  potatoes 
which  she  had  reserved  for  him. 

'Very  well,'  said  Gabriel   amiably,   as  he  took 


246  DUBLINERS 

another  preparatory  draught,  'kindly  forget  my 
existence,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  for  a  few  minutes.' 

He  set  to  his  supper  and  took  no  part  in  the 
conversation  with  which  the  table  covered  Lily's 
removal  of  the  plates.  The  subject  of  talk  was 
the  opera  company  which  was  then  at  the  Theatre 
Royal.  Mr  Bartell  D'Arcy,  the  tenor,  a  dark- 
complexioned  young  man  with  a  smart  moustache, 
praised  very  highly  the  leading  contralto  of  the 
company  but  Miss  Furlong  thought  she  had  a  rather 
vulgar  style  of  production.  Freddy  Malins  said 
there  was  a  negro  chieftain  singing  in  the  second 
part  of  the  Gaiety  pantomime  who  had  one  of  the 
finest  tenor  voices  he  had  ever  heard. 

"  Have  you  heard  him  ? '  he  asked  Mr  Bartell 
D'Arcy  across  the  table. 

4  No,'  answered  Mr  Bartell  D'Arcy  carelessly. 

1  Because,'  Freddy  Malins  explained,  '  now  I'd 
be  curious  to  hear  your  opinion  of  him.  I  think 
he  has  a  grand  voice.' 

4  It  takes  Teddy  to  find  out  the  really  good  things,' 
said  Mr  Browne  familiarly  to  the  table. 

1  And  why  couldn't  he  have  a  voice  too  ?  '  asked 
Freddy  Malins  sharply.  *  Is  it  because  he's  only 
a  black?' 

Nobody  answered  this  question  and  Mary  Jane 
led  the  table  back  to  the  legitimate  opera.  One 
of  her  pupils  had  given  her  a  pass  for  Mignon.  Of 
course  it  was  very  fine,  she  said,  but  it  made  her 
think  of  poor  Georgina  Burns.  Mr  Browne  could 
go  back  farther  still,  to  the  old  Italian  companies 


THE  DEAD  247 

that  used  to  come  to  Dublin — Tietjens,  lima  de 
Murzka,  Campanini,  the  great  Trebelli  Giuglini, 
Ravelli,  Aramburo.  Those  were  the  days,  he  said, 
when  there  was  something  like  singing  to  be  heard  in 
Dublin.  He  told  too  of  how  the  top  gallery  of  the 
old  Royal  used  to  be  packed  night  after  night,  of 
how  one  night  an  Italian  tenor  had  sung  five  encores 
to  Let  me  like  a  Soldier  fall,  introducing  a  high 
C  every  time,  and  of  how  the  gallery  boys  would 
sometimes  in  their  enthusiasm  unyoke  the  horses 
from  the  carriage  of  some  great  prima  donna  and  pull 
her  themselves  through  the  streets  to  her  hotel. 
Why  did  they  never  play  the  grand  old  operas  now, 
he  asked, '  Dinorah,  Lucrezia  Borgia  ?  Because  they 
could  not  get  the  voices  to  sing  them  :  that  was 
why.' 

4  O,  well,'  said  Mr  Bartell  D'Arcy,  '  I  presume 
there  are  as  good  singers  to-day  as  there  were  then.' 

1  Where  are  they  ?  '  asked  Mr  Browne  defiantly. 

'  In  London,  Paris,  Milan,'  said  Mr  Bartell  D'Arcy 
warmly.  *  I  suppose  Caruso,  for  example,  is  quite  as 
good,  if  not  better  than  any  of  the  men  you  have 
mentioned.' 

'Maybe  so,'  said  Mr  Browne.  'But  I  may  tell 
you  I  doubt  it  strongly.' 

'  O,  I'd  give  anything  to  hear  Caruso  sing,'  said 
Mary  Jane. 

'  For  me,'  said  Aunt  Kate,  who  had  been  picking 
a  bone,  '  there  was  only  one  tenor.  To  please  me, 
I  mean.  But  I  suppose  none  of  you  ever  heard  of 
him.' 


248  DUBLINERS 

*  Who  was  he,  Miss  Morkan  ?  '  asked  Mr  Bartell 
D'Arcy  politely. 

'His  name,'  said  Aunt  Kate,  'was  Parkinson. 
I  heard  him  when  he  was  in  his  prime  and  I  think 
he  had  then  the  purest  tenor  voice  that  was  ever 
put  into  a  man's  throat.' 

'  Strange,'  said  Mr  Bartell  D'Arcy.  '  I  never 
even  heard  of  him.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  Miss  Morkan  is  right,'  said  Mr  Browne. 
*  I  remember  hearing  of  old  Parkinson  but  he's  too 
far  back  for  me.' 

'A  beautiful  pure  sweet  mellow  English  tenor,' 
said  Aunt  Kate  with  enthusiasm. 

Gabriel  having  finished,  the  huge  pudding  was 
transferred  to  the  table.  The  clatter  of  forks  and 
spoons  began  again.  Gabriel's  wife  served  out 
spoonfuls  of  the  pudding  and  passed  the  plates 
down  the  table.  Midway  down  they  were  held  up 
by  Mary  Jane,  who  replenished  them  with  raspberry 
or  orange  jelly  or  with  blancmange  and  jam.  The 
pudding  was  of  Aunt  Julia's  making  and  she  received 
praises  for  it  from  all  quarters.  She  herself  said 
that  it  was  not  quite  brown  enough. 

'Well,  I  hope,  Miss  Morkan,'  said  Mr  Browne, 
'  that  I'm  brown  enough  for  you  because,  you  know, 
I'm  all  brown.' 

All  the  gentlemen,  except  Gabriel,  ate  some  of  the 
pudding  out  of  compliment  to  Aunt  Julia.  As  Gabriel 
never  ate  sweets  the  celery  had  been  left  for  him. 
Freddy  Malins  also  took  a  stalk  of  celery  and  ate 
it  with  his  pudding.    He  had  been  told  that  celery 


THE  DEAD  249 

was  a  capital  thing  for  the  blood  and  he  was  just 
then  under  doctor's  care.  Mrs  Malins,  who  had  been 
silent  all  through  the  supper,  said  that  her  son  was 
going  down  to  Mount  Melleray  in  a  week  or  so.  The 
table  then  spoke  of  Mount  Melleray,  how  bracing  the 
air  was  down  there,  how  hospitable  the  monks  were 
and  how  they  never  asked  for  a  penny-piece  from 
their  guests. 

'And  do  you  mean  to  say,'  asked  Mr  Browne 
incredulously,  '  that  a  chap  can  go  down  there  and 
put  up  there  as  if  it  were  a  hotel  and  live  on  the  fat 
of  the  land  and  then  come  away  without  paying 
anything  ?  ' 

1 0,  most  people  give  some  donation  to  the 
monastery  when  they  leave,'  said  Mary  Jane. 

'  I  wish  we  had  an  institution  like  that  in  our 
Church,'  said  Mr  Browne  candidly. 

He  was  astonished  to  hear  that  the  monks  never 
spoke,  got  up  at  two  in  the  morning  and  slept  in 
their  coffins.     He  asked  what  they  did  it  for. 

1  That's  the  rule  of  the  order,'  said  Aunt  Kate  firmly. 

4  Yes,  but  why  ?  '   asked  Mr  Browne. 

Aunt  Kate  repeated  that  it  was  the  rule,  that 
was  all.  Mr  Browne  still  seemed  not  to  understand. 
Freddy  Malins  explained  to  him,  as  best  he  could, 
that  the  monks  were  trying  to  make  up  for  the  sins 
committed  by  all  the  sinners  in  the  outside  world. 
The  explanation  was  not  very  clear  for  Mr  Browne 
grinned  and  said  : 

■  I  like   that   idea   very  much   but  wouldn't    a 
comfortable  spring  bed  do  them  as  well  as  a  coffin  ?  ' 


250  DUBLINERS 

'  The  coffin,'  said  Mary  Jane,  '  is  to  remind  them 
of  their  last  end.' 

As  the  subject  had  grown  lugubrious  it  was  buried 
in  a  silence  of  the  table  during  which  Mrs  Malins 
could  be  heard  saying  to  her  neighbour  in  an 
indistinct  undertone : 

'  They  are  very  good  men,  the  monks,  very  pious 
men.' 

The  raisins  and  almonds  and  figs  and  apples 
and  oranges  and  chocolates  and  sweets  were  now 
passed  about  the  table  and  Aunt  Julia  invited  all 
the  guests  to  have  either  port  or  sherry.  At  first 
Mr  Bartell  D'Arcy  refused  to  take  either  but  one  of 
his  neighbours  nudged  him  and  whispered  something 
to  him  upon  which  he  allowed  his  glass  to  be  filled. 
Gradually  as  the  last  glasses  were  being  filled  the 
conversation  ceased.  A  pause  followed,  broken  only 
by  the  noise  of  the  wine  and  by  unsettlings  of  chairs. 
The  Misses  Morkan,  all  three,  looked  down  at  the 
tablecloth.  Someone  coughed  once  or  twice  and 
then  a  few  gentlemen  patted  the  table  gently  as  a 
signal  for  silence.  The  silence  came  and  Gabriel 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  stood  up. 

The  patting  at  once  grew  louder  in  encouragement 
and  then  ceased  altogether.  Gabriel  leaned  his  ten 
trembling  fingers  on  the  tablecloth  and  smiled 
nervously  at  the  company.  Meeting  a  row  of 
upturned  faces  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  chandelier. 
The  piano  was  playing  a  waltz  tune  and  he  could 
hear  the  skirts  sweeping  against  the  drawing-room 
door.     People,  perhaps,  were  standing  in  the  snow 


THE  DEAD  251 

on  the  quay  outside,  gazing  up  at  the  lighted 
windows  and  listening  to  the  waltz  music.  The  air 
was  pure  there.  In  the  distance  lay  the  park  where 
the  trees  were  weighted  with  snow.  The  Wellington 
Monument  wore  a  gleaming  cap  of  snow  that  flashed 
westward  over  the  white  field  of  Fifteen  Acres. 

He  began  : 

4  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 

4  It  has  fallen  to  my  lot  this  evening,  as  in  years 
past,  to  perform  a  very  pleasing  task  but  a  task  for 
which  I  am  afraid  my  poor  powers  as  a  speaker  are 
all  too  inadequate.' 

4  No,  no  ! '  said  Mr  Browne. 

4  But,  however  that  may  be,  I  can  only  ask  you 
to-night  to  take  the  will  for  the  deed  and  to  lend  me 
your  attention  for  a  few  moments  while  I  endeavour 
to  express  to  you  in  words  what  my  feelings  are  on 
this  occasion. 

4  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  it  is  not  the  first  time 
that  we  have  gathered  together  under  this  hospitable 
roof,  around  this  hospitable  board.  It  is  not  the 
first  time  that  we  have  been  the  recipients — or 
perhaps,  I  had  better  say,  the  victims — of  the 
hospitality  of  certain  good  ladies.' 

He  made  a  circle  in  the  air  with  his  arm  and  paused. 
Everyone  laughed  or  smiled  at  Aunt  Kate  and  Aunt 
Julia  and  Mary  Jane  who  all  turned  crimson  with 
pleasure.     Gabriel  went  on  more  boldly  : 

4 1  feel  more  strongly  with  every  recurring  year 
that  our  country  has  no  tradition  which  does  it  so 
much  honour  and  which  it  should  guard  so  jealously 


252  DUBLINERS 

as  that  of  its  hospitality.  It  is  a  tradition  that  is 
unique  as  far  as  my  experience  goes  (and  I  have 
visited  not  a  few  places  abroad)  among  the  modern 
nations.  Some  would  say,  perhaps,  that  with  us  it 
is  rather  a  failing  than  a  thing  to  be  boasted  of. 
But  granted  even  that,  it  is,  to  my  mind,  a  princely 
failing,  and  one  that  I  trust  will  long  be  cultivated 
among  us.  Of  one  thing,  at  least,  I  am  sure.  As 
long  as  this  one  roof  shelters  the  good  ladies  aforesaid 
— and  I  wish  from  my  heart  it  may  do  so  for  many 
and  many  a  long  year  to  come — the  tradition  of 
genuine  warm-hearted  courteous  Irish  hospitality, 
which  our  forefathers  have  handed  down  to  us  and 
which  we  in  turn  must  hand  down  to  our  descendants, 
is  still  alive  among  us.' 

A  hearty  murmur  of  assent  ran  round  the  table. 
It  shot  through  Gabriel's  mind  that  Miss  Ivors  was 
not  there  and  that  she  had  gone  away  discourteously  : 
and  he  said  with  confidence  in  himself  : 

4  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 

'  A  new  generation  is  growing  up  in  our  midst, 
a  generation  actuated  by  new  ideas  and  new 
principles.  It  is  serious  and  enthusiastic  for  these 
new  ideas  and  its  enthusiasm,  even  when  it  is  mis- 
directed, is,  I  believe,  in  the  main  sincere.  But 
we  are  living  in  a  sceptical  and,  if  I  may  use  the 
phrase,  a  thought-tormented  age :  and  sometimes 
I  fear  that  this  new  generation,  educated  or  hyper- 
educated  as  it  is,  will  lack  those  qualities  of  humanity, 
of  hospitality,  of  kindly  humour  which  belonged  to 
an  older  day.    Listening  to-night  to  the  names  of 


THE  DEAD  253 

all  those  great  singers  of  the  past  it  seemed  to  me, 
I  must  confess,  that  we  were  living  in  a  less  spacious 
age.  Those  days  might,  without  exaggeration,  be 
called  spacious  days  :  and  if  they  are  gone  beyond 
recall  let  us  hope,  at  least,  that  in  gatherings  such 
as  this  we  shall  still  speak  of  them  with  pride  and 
affection,  still  cherish  in  our  hearts  the  memory  of 
those  dead  and  gone  great  ones  whose  fame  the  world 
will  not  willingly  let  die.' 

'  Hear,  hear  ! '  said  Mr  Browne  loudly. 

'  But  yet,'  continued  Gabriel,  his  voice  falling  into 
a  softer  inflection,  '  there  are  always  in  gatherings 
such  as  this  sadder  thoughts  that  will  recur  to  our 
minds :  thoughts  of  the  past,  of  youth,  of  changes, 
of  absent  faces  that  we  miss  here  to-night.  Our  path 
through  life  is  strewn  with  many  such  sad  memories  : 
and  were  we  to  brood  upon  them  always  we  could 
not  find  the  heart  to  go  on  bravely  with  our  work 
among  the  living.  We  have  all  of  us  living  duties 
and  living  affections  which  claim,  and  rightly  claim, 
our  strenuous  endeavours. 

1  Therefore,  I  will  not  linger  on  the  past.  I  will 
not  let  any  gloomy  moralising  intrude  upon  us  here 
to-night.  Here  we  are  gathered  together  for  a  brief 
moment  from  the  bustle  and  rush  of  our  everyday 
routine.  We  are  met  here  as  friends,  in  the  spirit 
of  good-fellowship,  as  colleagues,  also  to  a  certain 
extent,  in  the  true  spirit  of  camaraderie,  and  as  the 
guests  of — what  shall  I  call  them  ? — the  Three  Graces 
of  the  Dublin  musical  world.' 

The  table  burst  into  applause  and  laughter  at  this 


254  DUBLINERS 

allusion.  Aunt  Julia  vainly  asked  each  of  her 
neighbours  in  turn  to  tell  her  what  Gabriel  had  said. 

'  He  says  we  are  the  Three  Graces,  Aunt  Julia,' 
said  Mary  Jane. 

Aunt  Julia  did  not  understand  but  she  looked  up, 
smiling,  at  Gabriel,  who  continued  in  the  same  vein  : 

'  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 

'  I  will  not  attempt  to  play  to-night  the  part 
that  Paris  played  on  another  occasion.  I  will  not 
attempt  to  choose  between  them.  The  task  would 
be  an  invidious  one  and  one  beyond  my  poor 
powers.  For  when  I  view  them  in  turn,  whether 
it  be  our  chief  hostess  herself,  whose  good  heart, 
whose  too  good  heart,  has  become  a  byword  with  all 
who  know  her,  or  her  sister,  who  seems  to  be  gifted 
with  perennial  youth  and  whose  singing  must  have 
been  a  surprise  and  a  revelation  to  us  all  to-night, 
or,  last  but  not  least,  when  I  consider  our  youngest 
hostess,  talented,  cheerful,  hard-working  and  the 
best  of  nieces,  I  confess,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  that 
I  do  not  know  to  which  of  them  I  should  award  the 
prize.' 

Gabriel  glanced  down  at  his  aunts  and,  seeing 
the  large  smile  on  Aunt  Julia's  face  and  the  tears 
which  had  risen  to  Aunt  Kate's  eyes,  hastened  to 
his  close.  He  raised  his  glass  of  port  gallantly, 
while  every  member  of  the  company  fingered  a  glass 
expectantly,  and  said  loudly  : 

1  Let  us  toast  them  all  three  together.  Let  us 
drink  to  their  health,  wealth,  long  life,  happiness 
and  prosperity  and  may  they  long  continue  to  hold 


THE  DEAD  255 

the  proud  and  self -won  position  which  they  hold  in 
their  profession  and  the  position  of  honour  and 
affection  which  they  hold  in  our  hearts.' 

All  the  guests  stood  up,  glass  in  hand,  and, 
turning  towards  the  three  seated  ladies,  sang  in 
unison,  with  Mr  Browne  as  leader  : 

1  For  they  are  jolly  gay  fellows, 
For  they  are  jolly  gay  fellows, 
For  they  are  jolly  gay  fellows, 
Which  nobody  can  deny.' 

Aunt  Kate  was  making  frank  use  of  her  hand- 
kerchief and  even  Aunt  Julia  seemed  moved.  Freddy 
Malins  beat  time  with  his  pudding-fork  and  the 
singers  turned  towards  one  another,  as  if  in  melodious 
conference,  while  they  sang  with  emphasis  : 

'  Unless  he  tells  a  lie, 
Unless  he  tells  a  lie.' 

Then,  turning  once  more  towards  their  hostesses, 
they  sang  : 

1  For  they  are  jolly  gay  fellows, 
For  they  are  jolly  gay  fellows, 
For  they  are  jolly  gay  fellows, 
Which  nobody  can  deny.' 

The  acclamation  which  followed  was  taken  up 
beyond  the  door  of  the  supper-room  by  many  of  the 
other  guests  and  renewed  time  after  time,  Freddy 
Malins  acting  as  officer  with  his  fork  on  high. 

The  piercing  morning  air  came  into  the  hall  where 
they  were  standing  so  that  Aunt  Kate  said  : 


256  DUBLINERS 

1  Close  the  door,  somebody.  Mrs  Malins  will  get 
her  death  of  cold.' 

4  Browne  is  out  there,  Aunt  Kate,'  said  Mary  Jane. 

'  Browne  is  everywhere,'  said  Aunt  Kate,  lowering 
her  voice. 

Mary  Jane  laughed  at  her  tone. 

4  Really,'  she  said  archly,  '  he  is  very  attentive.' 

'  He  has  been  laid  on  here  like  the  gas,'  said  Aunt 
Kate  in  the  same  tone,  '  all  during  the  Christmas.' 

She  laughed  herself  this  time  good-humouredly 
and  then  added  quickly  : 

6  But  tell  him  to  come  in,  Mary  Jane,  and  close 
the  door.     I  hope  to  goodness  he  didn't  hear  me.' 

At  that  moment  the  hall- door  was  opened  and 
Mr  Browne  came  in  from  the  doorstep,  laughing  as 
if  his  heart  would  break.  He  was  dressed  in  a  long 
green  overcoat  with  mock  astrakhan  cuffs  and  collar 
and  wore  on  his  head  an  oval  fur  cap.  He  pointed 
down  the  snow-covered  quay  from  where  the  sound 
of  shrill  prolonged  whistling  was  borne  in. 

'  Teddy  will  have  all  the  cabs  in  Dublin  out,'  he  said. 

Gabriel  advanced  from  the  little  pantry  behind 
the  office,  struggling  into  his  overcoat  and,  looking 
round  the  hall,  said  : 

'  Gretta  not  down  yet  ?  ' 

'  She's  getting  on  her  things,  Gabriel,'  said  Aunt 
Kate. 

4  Who's  playing  up  there  ?  '  asked  Gabriel. 

6  Nobody.    They're  all  gone.' 

'O  no,  Aunt  Kate/  said  Mary  Jane.  '  Bartell 
D'Arcy  and  Miss  O'Callaghan  aren't  gone  yet.' 


THE  DEAD  257 

1  Someone  is  fooling  at  the  piano,  anyhow,'  said 
Gabriel. 

Mary  Jane  glanced  at  Gabriel  and  Mr  Browne 
and  said  with  a  shiver  : 

4  It  makes  me  feel  cold  to  look  at  you  two  gentle- 
men muffled  up  like  that.  I  wouldn't  like  to  face 
your  journey  home  at  this  hour.' 

1  I'd  like  nothing  better  this  minute,'  said  Mr 
Browne  stoutly,  '  than  a  rattling  fine  walk  in  the 
country  or  a  fast  drive  with  a  good  spanking  goer 
between  the  shafts.' 

4  We  used  to  have  a  very  good  horse  and  trap  at 
home,'  said  Aunt  Julia  sadly. 

'The  never-to-be-forgotten  Johnny,'   said  Mary 
Jane,  laughing. 
Aunt  Kate  and  Gabriel  laughed  too. 
4  Why,  what    was    wonderful    about    Johnny  ? ' 
asked  Mr  Browne. 

4  The  late  lamented  Patrick  Morkan,  our  grand- 
father, that  is,'  explained  Gabriel,  *  commonly  known  in 
his  later  years  as  the  old  gentleman,  was  a  glue-boiler.' 
4  O,  now,  Gabriel,'  said  Aunt  Kate,  laughing,  4  he 
had  a  starch  mill.' 

4  Well,  glue  or  starch,'  said  Gabriel,  4  the  old  gentle- 
man had  a  horse  by  the  name  of  Johnny.  And 
Johnny  used  to  work  in  the  old  gentleman's  mill, 
walking  round  and  round  in  order  to  drive  the  mill. 
That  was  all  very  well ;  but  now  comes  the  tragic 
part  about  Johnny.  One  fine  day  the  old  gentleman 
thought  he'd  like  to  drive  out  with  the  quality  to 
a  military  review  in  the  park.' 


258  DUBLINERS 

6  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul,'  said  Aunt  Kate 
compassionately. 

4  Amen,'  said  Gabriel.  '  So  the  old  gentleman, 
as  I  said,  harnessed  Johnny  and  put  on  his  very  best 
tall  hat  and  his  very  best  stock  collar  and  drove  out 
in  grand  style  from  his  ancestral  mansion  somewhere 
near  Back  Lane,  I  think.' 

Everyone  laughed,  even  Mrs  Malins,  at  Gabriel's 
manner  and  Aunt  Kate  said  : 

'  O  now,  Gabriel,  he  didn't  live  in  Back  Lane, 
really.    Only  the  mill  was  there.' 

1  Out  from  the  mansion  of  his  forefathers,'  con- 
tinued Gabriel,  '  he  drove  with  Johnny.  And  every- 
thing went  on  beautifully  until  Johnny  came  in  sight 
of  King  Billy's  statue  :  and  whether  he  fell  in  love 
with  the  horse  King  Billy  sits  on  or  whether  he 
thought  he  was  back  again  in  the  mill,  anyhow  he 
began  to  walk  round  the  statue.' 

Gabriel  paced  in  a  circle  round  the  hall  in  his 
goloshes  amid  the  laughter  of  the  others. 

4  Round  and  round  he  went,'  said  Gabriel,  'and 
the  old  gentleman,  who  was  a  very  pompous  old 
gentleman,  was  highly  indignant.  "  Go  on,  sir ! 
What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  Johnny !  Johnny ! 
Most  extraordinary  conduct !  Can't  understand  the 
horse  !  "  ' 

The  peals  of  laughter  which  followed  Gabriel's 
imitation  of  the  incident  was  interrupted  by  a 
resounding  knock  at  the  hall-door.  Mary  Jane  ran 
to  open  it  and  let  in  Freddy  Malins.  Freddy  Malins, 
with  his  hat  well  back  on  his  head  and  his  shoulders 


THE  DEAD  259 

humped  with  cold,  was  puffing  and  steaming  after 
his  exertions. 

•  I  could  only  get  one  cab,'  he  said. 

40,    we'll    find   another   along    the   quay,'    said 
Gabriel. 

'  Yes,'  said  Aunt  Kate.     *  Better  not  keep  Mrs 
Malins  standing  in  the  draught.' 

Mrs  Malins  was  helped  down  the  front  steps  by 
her  son  and  Mr  Browne  and,  after  many  manoeuvres, 
hoisted  into  the  cab.     Freddy  Malins  clambered  in 
after  her  and  spent  a  long  time  settling  her  on  the 
seat,  Mr  Browne  helping  him  with  advice.    At  last 
she  was    settled   comfortably  and  Freddy  Malins 
invited  Mr  Browne  into  the  cab.    There  was  a  good 
deal  of  confused  talk,  and  then  Mr  Browne  got  into 
the  cab.    The  cabman  settled  his  rug  over  his  knees, 
and  bent  down  for  the  address.    The  confusion  grew 
greater  and  the  cabman  was  directed   differently 
by  Freddy  Malins  and  Mr  Browne,  each  of  whom 
had  his  head  out  through  a  window  of  the  cab.     The 
difficulty  was  to  know  where  to  drop  Mr  Browne 
along  the  route  and  Aunt  Kate,  Aunt  Julia  and  Mary 
Jane  helped  the  discussion  from  the  doorstep  with 
cross-directions  and  contradictions  and  abundance  of 
laughter.      As  for  Freddy  Malins  he  was  speechless 
with  laughter.     He  popped  his  head  in  and  out  of 
the  window  every  moment,  to  the  great  danger  of 
his  hat,  and  told  his  mother  how  the  discussion  was 
progressing  till  at  last  Mr  Browne  shouted  to  the 
bewildered  cabman  above  the  din  of  everybody's 
laughter  : 


260  DUBLINERS 

4  Do  you  know  Trinity  College  ?  ' 

4  Yes,  sir,'  said  the  cabman. 

*  Well,  drive  bang  up  against  Trinity  College  gates,' 
said  Mr  Browne,  '  and  then  we'll  tell  you  where  to 
go.    You  understand  now  ?  ' 

1  Yes,  sir,'  said  the  cabman. 

1  Make  like  a  bird  for  Trinity  College.' 

1  Right,  sir,'  said  the  cabman. 

The  horse  was  whipped  up  and  the  cab  rattled  off 
along  the  quay  amid  a  chorus  of  laughter  and  adieus. 

Gabriel  had  not  gone  to  the  door  with  the  others. 
He  was  in  a  dark  part  of  the  hall  gazing  up  the 
staircase.  A  woman  was  standing  near  the  top  of 
the  first  flight,  in  the  shadow  also.  He  could  not  see 
her  face  but  he  could  see  the  terracotta  and  salmon- 
pink  panels  of  her  skirt  which  the  shadow  made 
appear  black  and  white.  It  was  his  wife.  She 
was  leaning  on  the  banisters,  listening  to  something. 
Gabriel  was  surprised  at  her  stillness  and  strained 
his  ear  to  listen  also.  But  he  could  hear  little  save 
the  noise  of  laughter  and  dispute  on  the  front  steps, 
a  few  chords  struck  on  the  piano  and  a  few  notes  of 
a  man's  voice  singing. 

He  stood  still  in  the  gloom  of  the  hall,  trying  to 
catch  the  air  that  the  voice  was  singing  and  gazing 
up  at  his  wife.  There  was  grace  and  mystery  in  her 
attitude  as  if  she  were  a  symbol  of  something.  He 
asked  himself  what  is  a  woman  standing  on  the  stairs 
in  the  shadow,  listening  to  distant  music,  a  symbol 
of.  If  he  were  a  painter  he  would  paint  her  in  that 
attitude.    Her  blue  felt  hat  would  show  off  the  bronze 


THE  DEAD  261 

of  her  hair  against  the  darkness  and  the  dark  panels 
of  her  skirt  would  show  off  the  light  ones.  Distant 
Music  he  would  call  the  picture  if  he  were  a  painter. 

The  hall-door  was  closed;  and  Aunt  Kate,  Aunt 
Julia  and  Mary  Jane  came  down  the  hall,  still 
laughing. 

1  Well,  isn't  Freddy  terrible  ?  '  said  Mary  Jane. 
1  He's  really  terrible.' 

Gabriel  said  nothing  but  pointed  up  the  stairs 
towards  where  his  wife  was  standing.  Now  that 
the  hall -door  was  closed  the  voice  and  the  piano 
could  be  heard  more  clearly.  Gabriel  held  up  his 
hand  for  them  to  be  silent.  The  song  seemed  to  be 
in  the  old  Irish  tonality  and  the  singer  seemed 
uncertain  both  of  his  words  and  of  his  voice.  The 
voice,  made  plaintive  by  distance  and  by  the  singer's 
hoarseness,  faintly  illuminated  the  cadence  of  the  air 
with  words  expressing  grief  : 

'  O,  the  rain  falls  on  my  heavy  locks 
And  the  dew  wets  my  skin, 
My  babe  lies  cold  .  .  .' 

4  O,'  exclaimed  Mary  Jane.  '  It's  Bartell  D'Arcy 
singing  and  he  wouldn't  sing  all  the  night.  O,  I'll 
get  him  to  sing  a  song  before  he  goes.' 

1  O  do,  Mary  Jane,'  said  Aunt  Kate. 

Mary  Jane  brushed  past  the  others  and  ran  to  the 
staircase  but  before  she  reached  it  the  singing 
stopped  and  the  piano  was  closed  abruptly. 

4  O,  what  a  pity ! '  she  cried.  '  Is  he  coming  down, 
Gretta  ? ' 


262  DUBLINERS 

Gabriel  heard  his  wife  answer  yes  and  saw  her  come 
down  towards  them.  A  few  steps  behind  her  were 
Mr  Bartell  D'Arcy  and  Miss  O'Callaghan. 

1  O,  Mr  D'Arcy,'  cried  Mary  Jane,  4  it's  downright 
mean  of  you  to  break  off  like  that  when  we  were  all 
in  raptures  listening  to  you.' 

4 1  have  been  at  him  all  the  evening,'  said  Miss 
O'Callaghan,  '  and  Mrs  Conroy  too  and  he  told  us 
he  had  a  dreadful  cold  and  couldn't  sing.' 

4  O,  Mr  D'Arcy,'  said  Aunt  Kate,  '  now  that  was 
a  great  fib  to  tell.' 

8  Can't  you  see  that  I'm  as  hoarse  as  a  crow  ?  ' 
said  Mr  D'Arcy  roughly. 

He  went  into  the  pantry  hastily  and  put  on  his 
overcoat.  The  others,  taken  aback  by  his  rude 
speech,  could  find  nothing  to  say.  Aunt  Kate 
wrinkled  her  brows  and  made  signs  to  the  others 
to  drop  the  subject.  Mr  D'Arcy  stood  swathing  his 
neck  carefully  and  frowning. 

4  It's  the  weather,'  said  Aunt  Julia,  after  a 
pause. 

4  Yes,  everybody  has  colds,'  said  Aunt  Kate  readily, 
'  everybody.' 

4  They  say,'  said  Mary  Jane,  '  we  haven't  had 
snow  like  it  for  thirty  years ;  and  I  read  this  morning 
in  the  newspapers  that  the  snow  is  general  all  over 
Ireland.' 

4 1  love  the  look  of  snow,'  said  Aunt  Julia  sadly. 
4  So    do    I,'    said    Miss    O'Callaghan.     4I    think 
Christmas  is  never  really  Christmas  unless  we  have 
the  snow  on  the  ground.' 


THE  DEAD  263 

4  But  poor  Mr  D'Arcy  doesn't  like  the  snow,' 
said  Aunt  Kate,  smiling. 

Mr  D'Arcy  came  from  the  pantry,  fully  swathed 
and  buttoned,  and  in  a  repentant  tone  told  them  the 
history  of  his  cold.  Everyone  gave  him  advice  and 
said  it  was  a  great  pity  and  urged  him  to  be  very 
careful  of  his  throat  in  the  night  air.  Gabriel  watched 
his  wife  who  did  not  join  in  the  conversation.  She 
was  standing  right  under  the  dusty  fanlight  and  the 
flame  of  the  gas  lit  up  the  rich  bronze  of  her  hair 
which  he  had  seen  her  drying  at  the  fire  a  few  days 
before.  She  was  in  the  same  attitude  and  seemed 
unaware  of  the  talk  about  her.  At  last  she  turned 
towards  them  and  Gabriel  saw  that  there  was  colour 
on  her  cheeks  and  that  her  eyes  were  shining.  A 
sudden  tide  of  joy  went  leaping  out  of  his  heart. 

4  Mr  D'Arcy,'  she  said,  '  what  is  the  name  of  that 
song  you  were  singing  ?  ' 

4  It's  called  The  Lass  of  Aughrim?  said  Mr  D'Arcy, 
4  but  I  couldn't  remember  it  properly.  Why  ?  Do 
you  know  it  ?  ' 

4  The  Lass  of  Aughrim?  she  repeated.  4 1  couldn't 
think  of  the  name.' 

4  It's  a  very  nice  air,'  said  Mary  Jane.  4  I'm  sorry 
you  were  not  in  voice  to-night.' 

4  Now,  Mary  Jane,'  said  Aunt  Kate,  4  don't  annoy 
Mr  D'Arcy.     I  won't  have  him  annoyed.' 

Seeing  that  all  were  ready  to  start  she  shepherded 
them  to  the  door  where  good-night  was  said  : 

4  Well,  good-night,  Aunt  Kate,  and  thanks  for  the 
pleasant  evening.' 


264  DUBLINERS 

4  Good-night,  Gabriel.     Good-night,  Gretta  ! ' 

1  Good-night,  Aunt  Kate,  and  thanks  ever  so  much. 
Good-night,  Aunt  Julia.' 

'  O,  good-night,  Gretta,  I  didn't  see  you.' 

'Good-night,  Mr  D'Arcy.  Good-night,  Miss 
O'Callaghan.' 

4  Good-night,  Miss  Morkan.' 

4  Good-night,  again.' 

4  Good-night,  all.     Safe  home.' 

4  Good-night.     Good-night.' 

The  morning  was  still  dark.  A  dull  yellow  light 
brooded  over  the  houses  and  the  river ;  and  the 
sky  seemed  to  be  descending.  It  was  slushy  under- 
foot ;  and  only  streaks  and  patches  of  snow  lay  on 
the  roofs,  on  the  parapets  of  the  quay  and  on  the  area 
railings.  The  lamps  were  still  burning  redly  in  the 
murky  air  and,  across  the  river,  the  palace  of  the  Four 
Courts  stood  out  menacingly  against  the  heavy  sky. 

She  was  walking  on  before  him  with  Mr  Bartell 
D'Arcy,  her  shoes  in  a  brown  parcel  tucked  under 
one  arm  and  her  hands  holding  her  skirt  up  from 
the  slush.  She  had  no  longer  any  grace  of  attitude 
but  Gabriel's  eyes  were  still  bright  with  happiness. 
The  blood  went  bounding  along  his  veins  ;  and  the 
thoughts  went  rioting  through  his  brain,  proud, 
joyful,  tender,  valorous. 

She  was  walking  on  before  him  so  lightly  and  so 
erect  that  he  longed  to  run  after  her  noiselessly, 
catch  her  by  the  shoulders  and  say  something  foolish 
and  affectionate  into  her  ear.  She  seemed  to  him  so 
frail  that  he  longed  to  defend  her  against  something 


THE  DEAD  265 

and  then  to  be  alone  with  her.  Moments  of  their 
secret  life  together  burst  like  stars  upon  his  memory. 
A  heliotrope  envelope  was  lying  beside  his  breakfast- 
cup  and  he  was  caressing  it  with  his  hand.  Birds 
were  twittering  in  the  ivy  and  the  sunny  web  of  the 
curtain  was  shimmering  along  the  floor  :  he  could  not 
eat  for  happiness.  They  were  standing  on  the  crowded 
platform  and  he  was  placing  a  ticket  inside  the  warm 
palm  of  her  glove.  He  was  standing  with  her  in  the 
cold,  looking  in  through  a  grated  window  at  a  man 
making  bottles  in  a  roaring  furnace.  It  was  very 
cold.  Her  face,  fragrant  in  the  cold  air,  was  quite 
close  to  his  ;  and  suddenly  he  called  out  to  the  man 
at  the  furnace  : 

4  Is  the  fire  hot,  sir  ?  ' 

But  the  man  could  not  hear  with  the  noise  of 
the  furnace.  It  was  just  as  well.  He  might  have 
answered  rudely. 

A  wave  of  yet  more  tender  joy  escaped  from  his 
heart  and  went  coursing  in  warm  flood  along  his 
arteries.  Like  the  tender  fire  of  stars  moments  of 
their  life  together,  that  no  one  knew  of  or  would 
ever  know  of,  broke  upon  and  illumined  his  memory. 
He  longed  to  recall  to  her  those  moments,  to  make 
her  forget  the  years  of  their  dull  existence  together 
and  remember  only  their  moments  of  ecstasy.  For 
the  years,  he  felt,  had  not  quenched  his  soul  or  hers. 
Their  children,  his  writing,  her  household  cares  had 
not  quenched  all  their  souls'  tender  fire.  In  one 
letter  that  he  had  written  to  her  then  he  had  said  : 
•  Why  is  it  that  words  like  these  seem  to  me  so  dull 


266  DUBLINERS 

and  cold  ?  Is  it  because  there  is  no  word  tender 
enough  to  be  your  name  ? ' 

Like  distant  music  these  words  that  he  had 
written  years  before  were  borne  towards  him  from 
the  past.  He  longed  to  be  alone  with  her.  When 
the  others  had  gone  away,  when  he  and  she  were  in 
their  room  in  the  hotel,  then  they  would  be  alone 
together.    He  would  call  her  softly : 

'  Gretta  ! ' 

Perhaps  she  would  not  hear  at  once  :  she  would 
be  undressing.  Then  something  in  his  voice  would 
strike  her.     She  would  turn  and  look  at  him.  .  .  . 

At  the  corner  of  Winetavern  Street  they  met  a 
cab.  He  was  glad  of  its  rattling  noise  as  it  saved 
him  from  conversation.  She  was  looking  out  of 
the  window  and  seemed  tired.  The  others  spoke 
only  a  few  words,  pointing  out  some  building  or 
street.  The  horse  galloped  along  wearily  under 
the  murky  morning  sky,  dragging  his  old  rattling 
box  after  his  heels,  and  Gabriel  was  again  in  a  cab 
with  her,  galloping  to  catch  the  boat,  galloping  to 
their  honeymoon. 

As  the  cab  drove  across  O'Connell  Bridge  Miss 
O'Callaghan  said  : 

'  They  say  you  never  cross  O'Connell  Bridge 
without  seeing  a  white  horse.' 

4 1  see  a  white  man  this  time,'  said  Gabriel. 

1  Where  ?  '  asked  Mr  Bartell  D'Arcy. 

Gabriel  pointed  to  the  statue,  on  which  lay  patches 
of  snow.  Then  he  nodded  familiarly  to  it  and 
waved  his  hand. 


THE  DEAD  267 

4  Good-night,  Dan,'  he  said  gaily. 

When  the  cab  drew  up  before  the  hotel  Gabriel 
jumped  out  and,  in  spite  of  Mr  Bartell  D'Arcy's 
protest,  paid  the  driver.  He  gave  the  man  a  shilling 
over  his  fare.     The  man  saluted  and  said  : 

4  A  prosperous  New  Year  to  you,  sir.' 

4  The  same  to  you,'  said  Gabriel  cordially. 

She  leaned  for  a  moment  on  his  arm  in  getting 
out  of  the  cab  and  while  standing  at  the  curbstone, 
bidding  the  others  good-night.  She  leaned  lightly 
on  his  arm,  as  lightly  as  when  she  had  danced  with 
him  a  few  hours  before.  He  had  felt  proud  and 
happy  then,  happy  that  she  was  his,  proud  of  her 
grace  and  wifely  carriage.  But  now,  after  the  kind- 
ling again  of  so  many  memories,  the  first  touch  of 
her  body,  musical  and  strange  and  perfumed,  sent 
through  him  a  keen  pang  of  lust.  Under  cover 
of  her  silence  he  pressed  her  arm  closely  to  his  side  ; 
and,  as  they  stood  at  the  hotel  door,  he  felt  that  they 
had  escaped  from  their  lives  and  duties,  escaped  from 
home  and  friends  and  run  away  together  with  wild 
and  radiant  hearts  to  a  new  adventure. 

An  old  man  was  dozing  in  a  great  hooded  chair 
in  the  hall.  He  lit  a  candle  in  the  office  and  went 
before  them  to  the  stairs.  They  followed  him  in 
silence,  their  feet  falling  in  soft  thuds  on  the  thickly 
carpeted  stairs.  She  mounted  the  stairs  behind  the 
porter,  her  head  bowed  in  the  ascent,  her  frail 
shoulders  curved  as  with  a  burden,  her  skirt  girt 
lightly  about  her.  He  could  have  flung  his  arms 
about  her  hips  and  held  her  still  for  his  arms  were 


268  DUBLINERS 

trembling  with  desire  to  seize  her  and  only  the 
stress  of  his  nails  against  the  palms  of  his  hands  held 
the  wild  impulse  of  his  body  in  check.  The  porter 
halted  on  the  stairs  to  settle  his  guttering  candle. 
They  halted  too  on  the  steps  below  him.  In  the 
silence  Gabriel  could  hear  the  falling  of  the  molten 
wax  into  the  tray  and  the  thumping  of  his  own  heart 
against  his  ribs. 

The  porter  led  them  along  a  corridor  and  opened 
a  door.  Then  he  set  his  unstable  candle  down  on 
a  toilet-table  and  asked  at  what  hour  they  were  to 
be  called  in  the  morning. 

*  Eight,'  said  Gabriel. 

The  porter  pointed  to  the  tap  of  the  electric-light 
and  began  a  muttered  apology  but  Gabriel  cut  him 
short. 

1  We  don't  want  any  light.  We  have  light  enough 
from  the  street.  And  I  say,'  he  added,  pointing  to 
the  candle,  '  you  might  remove  that  handsome 
article,  like  a  good  man.' 

The  porter  took  up  his  candle  again,  but  slowly 
for  he  was  surprised  by  such  a  novel  idea.  Then 
he  mumbled  good-night  and  went  out.  Gabriel  shot 
the  lock  too. 

A  ghastly  light  from  the  street  lamp  lay  in  a  long 
shaft  from  one  window  to  the  door.  Gabriel  threw 
his  overcoat  and  hat  on  a  couch  and  crossed  the 
room  towards  the  window.  He  looked  down  into  the 
street  in  order  that  his  emotion  might  calm  a  little. 
Then  he  turned  and  leaned  against  a  chest  of  drawers 
with  his  back  to  the  light.    She  had  taken  off  her  hat 


THE  DEAD  269 

and  cloak  and  was  standing  before  a  large  swinging 
mirror,  unhooking  her  waist.  Gabriel  paused  for  a 
few  moments,  watching  her,  and  then  said  : 

1  Gretta  ! ' 

She  turned  away  from  the  mirror  slowly  and 
walked  along  the  shaft  of  light  towards  him.  Her 
face  looked  so  serious  and  weary  that  the  words 
would  not  pass  Gabriel's  lips.  No,  it  was  not  the 
moment  yet. 

4  You  look  tired,'  he  said. 

4 1  am  a  little,'  she  answered. 

1  You  don't  feel  ill  or  weak  ?  ' 

'No,  tired:  that's  all.' 

She  went  on  to  the  window  and  stood  there,  looking 
out.  Gabriel  waited  again  and  then,  fearing  that 
diffidence  was  about  to  conquer  him,  he  said 
abruptly : 

4  By  the  way,  Gretta  ! ' 

4  What  is  it  ?  ' 

4  You  know  that  poor  fellow  Malins  ? '  he  said 
quickly. 

4  Yes.    What  about  him  ?  ' 

4  Well;  poor  fellow,  he's  a  decent  sort  of  chap  after 
all,'  continued  Gabriel  in  a  false  voice.  4He  gave 
me  back  that  sovereign  I  lent  him  and  I  didn't  expect 
it  really.  It's  a  pity  he  wouldn't  keep  away  from 
that  Browne  because  he's  not  a  bad  fellow  really.' 

He  was  trembling  now  with  annoyance.  Why 
did  she  seem  so  abstracted  ?  He  did  not  know  how 
he  could  begin.  Was  she  annoyed,  too,  about 
something  ?     If  she  would  only  turn  to  him  or 


270  DUBLINERS 

come  to  him  of  her  own  accord !  To  take  her  as 
she  was  would  be  brutal.  No,  he  must  see  some 
ardour  in  her  eyes  first.  He  longed  to  be  master 
of  her  strange  mood. 

1  When  did  you  lend  him  the  pound  ?  '  she  asked, 
after  a  pause. 

Gabriel  strove  to  restrain  himself  from  breaking 
out  into  brutal  language  about  the  sottish  Malins 
and  his  pound.  He  longed  to  cry  to  her  from  his 
soul,  to  crush  her  body  against  his,  to  overmaster 
her.     But  he  said  : 

1 0,  at  Christmas,  when  he  opened  that  little 
Christmas-card  shop  in  Henry  Street.' 

He  was  in  such  a  fever  of  rage  and  desire  that  he 
did  not  hear  her  come  from  the  window.  She  stood 
before  him  for  an  instant,  looking  at  him  strangely. 
Then,  suddenly  raising  herself  on  tiptoe  and  resting 
her  hands  lightly  on  his  shoulders,  she  kissed  him. 

-  You  are  a  very  generous  person,  Gabriel,'  she  said. 

Gabriel,  trembling  with  delight  at  her  sudden 
kiss  and  at  the  quaintness  of  her  phrase,  put  his 
hands  on  her  hair  and  began  smoothing  it  back, 
scarcely  touching  it  with  his  fingers.  The  washing 
had  made  it  fine  and  brilliant.  His  heart  was 
brimming  over  with  happiness.  Just  when  he 
was  wishing  for  it  she  had  come  to  him  of  her  own 
accord.  Perhaps  her  thoughts  had  been  running 
with  his.  Perhaps  she  had  felt  the  impetuous  desire 
that  was  in  him  and  then  the  yielding  mood  had 
come  upon  her.  Now  that  she  had  fallen  to  him  so 
easily  he  wondered  why  he  had  been  so  diffident. 


THE  DEAD  271 

He  stood,  holding  her  head  between  his  hands. 
Then,  slipping  one  arm  swiftly  about  her  body  and 
drawing  her  towards  him,  he  said  softly  : 

4  Gretta  dear,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ?  ' 

She  did  not  answer  nor  yield  wholly  to  his  arm. 
He  said  again,  softly  : 

4  Tell  me  what  it  is,  Gretta.  I  think  I  know 
what  is  the  matter.    Do  I  know  ?  ' 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then  she  said  in  an 
outburst  of  tears  : 

4  O,  I  am  thinking  about  that  song,  The  Lass  of 
Aughrim.9 

She  broke  loose  from  him  and  ran  to  the  bed 
and,  throwing  her  arms  across  the  bed-rail,  hid  her 
face.  Gabriel  stood  stock-still  for  a  moment  in 
astonishment  and  then  followed  her.  As  he  passed 
in  the  way  of  the  cheval-glass  he  caught  sight  of 
himself  in  full  length,  his  broad,  well-filled  shirt-front, 
the  face  whose  expression  always  puzzled  him  when 
he  saw  it  in  a  mirror  and  his  glimmering  gilt- 
rimmed  eyeglasses.  He  halted  a  few  paces  from  her 
and  said : 

1  What  about  the  song  ?  Why  does  that  make 
you  cry  ?  ' 

She  raised  her  head  from  her  arms  and  dried  her 
eyes  with  the  back  of  her  hand  like  a  child.  A 
kinder  note  than  he  had  intended  went  into  his 
voice. 

4  Why,  Gretta  ?  '  he  asked. 
4 1  am  thinking  about  a  person  long  ago  who  used 
to  sing  that  song.' 


272  DUBLINERS 

1  And  who  was  the  person  long  ago  ? '  asked 
Gabriel,  smiling. 

'  It  was  a  person  I  used  to  know  in  Galway  when 
I  was  living  with  my  grandmother,'  she  said. 

The  smile  passed  away  from  Gabriel's  face.  A 
dull  anger  began  to  gather  again  at  the  back  of  his 
mind  and  the  dull  fires  of  his  lust  began  to  glow 
angrily  in  his  veins. 

'  Someone  you  were  in  love  with  ? '  he  asked 
ironically. 

'  It  was  a  young  boy  I  used  to  know,'  she  answered, 
4  named  Michael  Furey.  He  used  to  sing  that  song, 
The  Lass  of  Aughrim.    He  was  very  delicate.' 

Gabriel  was  silent.  He  did  not  wish  her  to  think 
that  he  was  interested  in  this  delicate  boy. 

'  I  can   see   him   so   plainly,'   she    said   after  a 
moment.     '  Such  eyes  as  he  had :  big  dark  eyes  ! 
And  such  an  expression  in  them — an  expression  ! ' 
'  O  then,  you  were  in  love  with  him  ? '  said  Gabriel. 
'  I  used  to  go  out  walking  with  him,'  she  said, 
4  when  I  was  in  Galway.' 
A  thought  flew  across  Gabriel's  mind. 
4  Perhaps  that  was  why  you  wanted  to  go  to 
Galway  with  that  Ivors  girl  ?  '   he  said  coldly. 
She  looked  at  him  and  asked  in  surprise : 
4  What  for  ?  ' 

Her    eyes    made    Gabriel    feel    awkward.     He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said : 

4  How  do  I  know  ?    To  see  him  perhaps.' 
She  looked  away  from  him  along  the  shaft  of  light 
towards  the  window  in  silence. 


THE  DEAD  273 

4  He  is  dead,'  she  said  at  length.  4  He  died  when 
he  was  only  seventeen.  Isn't  it  a  terrible  thing  to 
die  so  young  as  that  ?  ' 

4  What  was  he  ?  '  asked  Gabriel,  still  ironically. 

4  He  was  in  the  gasworks,'  she  said. 

Gabriel  felt  humiliated  by  the  failure  of  his  irony 
and  by  the  evocation  of  this  figure  from  the  dead, 
a  boy  in  the  gasworks.  While  he  had  been  full  of 
memories  of  their  secret  life  together,  full  of  tender- 
ness and  joy  and  desire,  she  had  been  comparing  him 
in  her  mind  with  another.  A  shameful  consciousness 
of  his  own  person  assailed  him.  He  saw  himself 
as  a  ludicrous  figure,  acting  as  a  pennyboy  for  his 
aunts,  a  nervous  well-meaning  sentimentalist,  orat- 
ing to  vulgarians  and  idealising  his  own  clownish 
lusts,  the  pitiable  fatuous  fellow  he  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  in  the  mirror.  Instinctively  he  turned 
his  back  more  to  the  light  lest  she  might  see  the 
shame  that  burned  upon  his  forehead. 

He  tried  to  keep  up  his  tone  of  cold  interrogation 
but  his  voice  when  he  spoke  was  humble  and 
indifferent. 

4 1  suppose  you  were  in  love  with  this  Michael 
Furey,  Gretta,'  he  said. 

4 1  was  great  with  him  at  that  time,'  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  veiled  and  sad.  Gabriel,  feeling 
now  how  vain  it  would  be  to  try  to  lead  her  whither 
he  had  purposed,  caressed  one  of  her  hands  and  said, 
also  sadly : 

4  And  what  did  he  die  of  so  young,  Gretta  ?    Con- 
sumption, was  it  ? ' 
s 


274  DUBLINERS 

4  I  think  he  died  for  me,'  she  answered. 

A  vague  terror  seized  Gabriel  at  this  answer  as  if, 
at  that  hour  when  he  had  hoped  to  triumph,  some 
impalpable  and  vindictive  being  was  coming  against 
him,  gathering  forces  against  him  in  its  vague  world. 
But  he  shook  himself  free  of  it  with  an  effort  of  reason 
and  continued  to  caress  her  hand.  He  did  not 
question  her  again  for  he  felt  that  she  would  tell  him 
of  herself.  Her  hand  was  warm  and  moist :  it  did 
not  respond  to  his  touch  but  he  continued  to  caress 
it  just  as  he  had  caressed  her  first  letter  to  him  that 
spring  morning. 

4  It  was  in  the  winter,'  she  said,  '  about  the 
beginning  of  the  winter  when  I  was  going  to  leave 
my  grandmother's  and  come  up  here  to  the  convent. 
And  he  was  ill  at  the  time  in  his  lodgings  in  Galway 
and  wouldn't  be  let  out  and  his  people  in  Oughterard 
were  written  to.  He  was  in  decline,  they  said,  or 
something  like  that.     I  never  knew  rightly.' 

She  paused  for  a  moment  and  sighed. 

4  Poor  fellow,'  she  said.  4  He  was  very  fond  of 
me  and  he  was  such  a  gentle  boy.  We  used  to  go 
out  together,  walking,  you  know,  Gabriel,  like  the 
way  they  do  in  the  country.  He  was  going  to  study 
singing  only  for  his  health.  He  had  a  very  good 
voice,  poor  Michael  Furey.' 

4  Well ;  and  then  ?  '  asked  Gabriel. 

4  And  then  when  it  came  to  the  time  for  me  to 
leave  Galway  and  come  up  to  the  convent  he  was 
much  worse  and  I  wouldn't  be  let  see  him  so  I  wrote 
him  a  letter  saying  I  was  going  up  to  Dublin  and 


THE  DEAD  275 

would  be  back  in  the  summer  and  hoping  he  would 
be  better  then.' 

She  paused  for  a  moment  to  get  her  voice  under 
control  and  then  went  on  : 

1  Then  the  night  before  I  left  I  was  in  my  grand- 
mother's house  in  Nuns'  Island,  packing  up,  and  I 
heard  gravel  thrown  up  against  the  window.  The 
window  was  so  wet  I  couldn't  see  so  I  ran  downstairs 
as  I  was  and  slipped  out  the  back  into  the  garden  and 
there  was  the  poor  fellow  at  the  end  of  the  garden, 
shivering.' 

'  And  did  you  not  tell  him  to  go  back  ?  '  asked 
Gabriel. 

4 1  implored  of  him  to  go  home  at  once  and  told 
him  he  would  get  his  death  in  the  rain.  But  he 
said  he  did  not  want  to  live.  I  can  see  his  eyes  as 
well  as  well !  He  was  standing  at  the  end  of  the  wall 
where  there  was  a  tree.' 

4  And  did  he  go  home  ?  '  asked  Gabriel. 

1  Yes,  he  went  home.  And  when  I  was  only  a 
week  in  the  convent  he  died  and  he  was  buried  in 
Oughterard  where  his  people  came  from.  O,  the 
day  I  heard  that,  that  he  was  dead  ! ' 

She  stopped,  choking  with  sobs,  and,  overcome 
by  emotion,  flung  herself  face  downward  on  the  bed, 
sobbing  in  the  quilt.  Gabriel  held  her  hand  for 
a  moment  longer,  irresolutely,  and  then,  shy  of 
intruding  on  her  grief,  let  it  fall  gently  and  walked 
quietly  to  the  window. 

She  was  fast  asleep. 


276  DUBLINERS 

Gabriel,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  looked  for  a  few 
moments  unresentfully  on  her  tangled  hair  and  half- 
open  mouth,  listening  to  her  deep-drawn  breath. 
So  she  had  had  that  romance  in  her  life  :  a  man 
had  died  for  her  sake.  It  hardly  pained  him  now  to 
think  how  poor  a  part  he,  her  husband,  had  played 
in  her  life.  He  watched  her  while  she  slept  as  though 
he  and  she  had  never  lived  together  as  man  and  wife. 
His  curious  eyes  rested  long  upon  her  face  and  on  her 
hair  :  and,  as  he  thought  of  what  she  must  have  been 
then,  in  that  time  of  her  first  girlish  beauty,  a  strange 
friendly  pity  for  her  entered  his  soul.  He  did  not 
like  to  say  even  to  himself  that  her  face  was  no  longer 
beautiful  but  he  knew  that  it  was  no  longer  the 
face  for  which  Michael  Furey  had  braved  death. 

Perhaps  she  had  not  told  him  all  the  story.  His 
eyes  moved  to  the  chair  over  which  she  had  thrown 
some  of  her  clothes.  A  petticoat  string  dangled  to 
the  floor.  One  boot  stood  upright,  its  limp  upper 
fallen  down  :  the  fellow  of  it  lay  upon  its  side.  He 
wondered  at  his  riot  of  emotions  of  an  hour  before. 
From  what  had  it  proceeded  ?  From  his  aunt's 
supper,  from  his  own  foolish  speech,  from  the  wine 
and  dancing,  the  merry-making  when  saying  good- 
night in  the  hall,  the  pleasure  of  the  walk  along  the 
river  in  the  snow.  Poor  Aunt  Julia  !  She,  too, 
would  soon  be  a  shade  with  the  shade  of  Patrick 
Morkan  and  his  horse.  He  had  caught  that  haggard 
look  upon  her  face  for  a  moment  when  she  was 
singing  Arrayed  for  the  Bridal.  Soon,  perhaps,  he 
would  be  sitting  in  that  same  drawing-room,  dressed 


THE  DEAD  277 

in  black,  his  silk  hat  on  his  knees.  The  blinds  would 
be  drawn  down  and  Aunt  Kate  would  be  sitting 
beside  him,  crying  and  blowing  her  nose  and  telling 
him  how  Julia  had  died.  He  would  cast  about  in  his 
mind  for  some  words  that  might  console  her,  and 
would  find  only  lame  and  useless  ones.  Yes,  yes  : 
that  would  happen  very  soon. 

The  air  of  the  room  chilled  his  shoulders.  He 
stretched  himself  cautiously  along  under  the  sheets 
and  lay  down  beside  his  wife.  One  by  one  they  were  all 
becoming  shades.  Better  pass  boldly  into  that  other 
world,  in  the  full  glory  of  some  passion,  than  fade 
and  wither  dismally  with  age.  He  thought  of  how 
she  who  lay  beside  him  had  locked  in  her  heart  for 
so  many  years  that  image  of  her  lover's  eyes  when 
he  had  told  her  that  he  did  not  wish  to  live. 

Generous  tears  filled  Gabriel's  eyes.  He  had 
never  felt  like  that  himself  towards  any  woman 
but  he  knew  that  such  a  feeling  must  be  love.  The 
tears  gathered  more  thickly  in  his  eyes  and  in  the 
partial  darkness  he  imagined  he  saw  the  form  of  a 
young  man  standing  under  a  dripping  tree.  Other 
forms  were  near.  His  soul  had  approached  that 
region  where  dwell  the  vast  hosts  of  the  dead. 
He  was  conscious  of,  but  could  not  apprehend,  their 
wayward  and  flickering  existence.  His  own  identity 
was  fading  out  into  a  grey  impalpable  world :  the 
solid  world  itself  which  these  dead  had  one  time 
reared  and  lived  in  was  dissolving  and  dwindling. 

A  few  light  taps  upon  the  pane  made  him  turn 
to  the  window.    It  had  begun  to  snow  again.    He 


278  DUBLINERS 

watched  sleepily  the  flakes,  silver  and  dark,  falling 
obliquely  against  the  lamplight.  The  time  had 
come  for  him  to  set  out  on  his  journey  westward. 
Yes,  the  newspapers  were  right :  snow  was  general 
all  over  Ireland.  It  was  falling  on  every  part  of  the 
dark  central  plain,  on  the  treeless  hills,  falling  softly 
upon  the  Bog  of  Allen  and,  farther  westward,  softly 
falling  into  the  dark  mutinous  Shannon  waves. 
It  was  falling,  too,  upon  every  part  of  the  lonely 
churchyard  on  the  hill  where  Michael  Furey  lay 
buried.  It  lay  thickly  drifted  on  the  crooked  crosses 
and  headstones,  on  the  spears  of  the  little  gate,  on 
the  barren  thorns.  His  soul  swooned  slowly  as  he 
heard  the  snow  falling  faintly  through  the  universe 
and  faintly  falling,  like  the  descent  of  their  last  end, 
upon  all  the  living  and  the  dead. 


LIBRARIES 


ByD.  H.  Lawrence 

THE  PRUSSIAN  OFFICER 
WOTHER    STORIES 

The  soul  of  man  is  bare  to  Mr. 
rence.  There  are  no  secret 
places  or  reservations.  Ever 
throbbing  in  unison  with  the 
primal  impulses  of  humanity, 
tuned  to  the  passions  that  make 
men  love  and  work  and  hate, 
aiive  to  the  likeness  of  seemingly 
unlike  things,  an  artist  in  depict- 
ing the  repressed  desire  and  a 
poet  always  -  he  presents  in  this 
lection  of  unforgettable  mas- 
terpieces the  innermost  strivings 
of  mankind.  The  Erigfish  Review 
Is  that  with  this  volume  he 
"takes  his  place  in  the  first  flight 
of  modern  writers."  It  is  not  an 
extra  va  ga  n t  statement. 

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